


Rebirth

by bluetilo



Series: Resurgence [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Comeplay, Drinking, Felching, Fisting, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Angst, Past Abuse, Past Mutilation, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostate Milking, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, Warging, Work In Progress, past genital mutilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 22:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 64,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1957839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetilo/pseuds/bluetilo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon gets sent to the Wall. Jon has to deal with his past. Satin is still trying to find his place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neliore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neliore/gifts).



> I'm always open to con-crit, so feel free to point me to any mistake you may find.
> 
> There is a prequel to this story, called "Awakening", and this will make a lot more sense if you read that one first.
> 
> This is a work in progress, but I have several chapters written in advance, so the updates will be regular. Also, there will be a great deal of smut in here, but it will take me some time to get there.
> 
> From 4th chapter on, this work is betaed by amazing DoubleBit, who has my eternal gratitude.
> 
> I dedicate this to Neliore. Our friendship is recent, but I hope it lasts a long time. Happy birthday, dear!
> 
> (Oh, and if you want to interact with me in another platform, try tumblr. My username there is bluetilo, too)

Jon’s eyes are closed but he’s awake. He lies in bed, trying to ease the rhythm of his breathing. His stab wounds are thick with scar tissue and he can feel them stretching tightly today, like they do almost every morning. The pain usually recedes to a light discomfort by the time he breaks his fast, but Jon can already tell that this particular day will be uncommonly sore.

 _I am alive,_ Jon thinks, _and the Wall is mine._ He doesn’t know what surprises him more. In fact, so many astonishing events have happened since he became Lord Commander that Jon muses he should have lost his ability to feel shocked by now. Nevertheless, every morning when he wakes up, Jon finds himself in disbelief that he is truly in this world, still a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, still Lord Commander.

* * *

For several days after being attacked, he was sure he was going to die.

He floated in a limbo of his own conscience, not knowing if the flashes he saw and heard were real or some kind of extended delirium in the moments that preceded his death. One time, he could swear it was Melisandre’s face in front of him, going in and out of focus.

“R’hllor worked through my spell to spare his life, but whether he goes on living isn’t up to the Lord of Light anymore. It is up to you,” Jon thought he heard her say.

He tried to talk, wanting to ask her who she was talking to, but from his mouth came only a groan. He wanted to raise his arm, ask her to stay, to talk to him, but his muscles didn’t obey.

He blinked, or at least he thought it was a blink, but days seemed to go by in the time it took for his eyes to close and open again. And then it was Satin in front of him. It was the smell he first recognized, sweet and better than anything he had ever smelled at the Wall. He saw the dark curls of Satin’s hair as he loomed over Jon, soft fingertips brushing over his skin as he pressed a wet cloth on Jon’s forehead. Once again, Jon tried to talk, tried to move, but the strength didn’t come.

During his days of confusion, he didn’t see Melisandre again, but the scene with Satin happened many times. Sometimes it was water he felt the boy giving him, with such dexterity that Jon didn’t suffocate despite his state of torpor, and sometimes it was a mixture of honey and herbs that granted him sustain. Several times it was the wet cloth again, on his neck, going down his chest, touching his armpits and even sliding down his arse cheeks to clean him there, as he was no doubt soiling himself as he lay in bed half dead. Even in his dazed state, a feeling of humiliation crept up his mind, made him want to say _No, let_ me _do it,_ but the words refused to come out and, once again, slumber took him heavily.

When his eyes finally opened up for good after all that time—how much time? Days? A fortnight? A month?—he wasn’t surprised to see Satin there; the boy had stayed by his sickbed all along, after all. As soon as he noticed Jon trying to lift himself to a sitting position, Satin ran swiftly to his side, trying to support his still unsteady body.

“Careful, my lord,” he said, worry evident in his voice. “You’re still weak. Lady Melisandre said your recover would be slow.”

“Lady Melisandre?” Jon asked, foolishly, frowning and bringing a hand over his face. Even the dying light of the lamp in a corner of the room shone too bright to Jon’s unaccustomed eyes.

“Yes, my lord,” Satin said. He waited a moment, and when Jon’s body didn’t collapse under his own weight, he took a step back, putting a respectful distance between them.

Satin’s smell escaped his nostrils. Jon frowned. It was a known smell, and he wanted to keep all familiar things close to him, considering how odd everything felt after his near death.

“She made sure I looked after you, nursed you back to health. Kept your wounds clean lest they fester.” After a moment, he added, “Not that she had to, my lord.”

“What happened?” stammered Jon, reaching for the flask he saw over the little table in the corner of the room. He didn’t even know what it contained, but he could almost feel the walls of his throat adhering to each other with thirst.

“You were attacked,” Satin said, as if Jon didn’t remember. Thankfully, he went on with further details. “Bowen Marsh, Yarwyck, Wick Wittlestick and a couple of others. Right after the incident with Wun Wun.”

“How… how am I alive?” It was coming back to him. He thought he could remember Wick slashing at his throat while he tried to figure out what to do with the giant out of control.

“It was Lady Melisandre. She didn’t offer us details, like she never does, but she said she warned you about blades in darkness or something like it, and that you didn't taken it into consideration after Alys Karstark turned out not to be my lord’s little sister.” The lump on Satin’s throat bobbed up and down. “She said a lot of things, my lord.” It was obvious by the way he frowned that most of them didn’t make sense to him.

Jon wished he could pay more attention to what Satin was saying, but his gaze kept focusing longingly on the flask out of his reach. Satin finally handed it to him. Milk and honey flooded his mouth when his lips closed around the flask like a newborn would do to a mother’s breast.

Satin kept going, looking sheepish for not knowing every detail. “She said you still had important things to perform, and that was why her red god used her to protect you from your threats.”

With the worst of his thirst taken care of, a kind of guilty thankfulness crept up in him. He was breathing only by Melisandre’s grace. He should’ve never taken the woman’s words so lightly.

“What happened to…” Jon took a moment to still himself. His tongue felt thick inside his mouth; his breathing was shallow and it was hard to talk. “Marsh, Yarwyck and the others?”

“They’re… dead, my lord.”

That took Jon by surprise. “Dead?” He cried out, but his voice died in the back of his throat and he was taken by a coughing fit that made him feel like every stab wound was tearing itself open again.

Jon felt Satin’s soothing hands running up and down his back as he said, “Easy, my lord. You’re still very weak.”

When the fit was over and Jon regained his wind, Satin went on. “They were considered mutineers. Lady Melisandre claimed in front of all men of the Night’s Watch to have seen a clearer vision of your attack only moments before it happened. She got to Hardwin’s Tower when your blood was still warm on the snow. She and her men caught your attackers red-handed. They were held in the ice cells and questioned.”

“Questioned?” Jon was acting as if he were simple-minded, repeating after Satin, but his head was still spinning and he couldn’t take in fast enough everything Satin said.

“Their plan was to kill you and blame the wildlings. The wildling men would be killed for attacking you, their women would be taken prisoners, and the mutineers would be free of having you as Lord Commander.”

Jon had no reason to mistrust Satin’s words. He had been facing open resistance commanding the Wall, and most of his black brothers were uncaring, rude men. Lord Commander Mormont had been as just as it was possible, given the dire circumstances, and he had been betrayed and murdered just the same. Why would it be any different for Jon?

“W-who is Lord Commander now? Who did the brothers choose?”

“You are still our Lord Commander.”

Satin’s voice sounded like he thought it was a very obvious conclusion, but Jon’s eyes got wide and his eyebrows got almost an inch higher.

“How can I still be Lord Commander?” Jon asked in disbelief. “I was ready to march against the Boltons in Winterfell.”

“But you didn’t, my lord. And even though you faced opposition, you still had several brothers on the Wall who were faithful to you.” Satin touched the skin on Jon’s forehead, checking him for fever. His diligent care told Jon that Satin was one of those men. “And others, though they were openly against your decisions as Lord Commander, disapprove of mutinies and fratricide. The wildlings also sided with you. Tormund Giantsbane roared about how even the Free Folk was willing to take arms and defend the Wall against our common foe while us, crows, fought and killed one another. Lady Melisandre also spoke in your behalf.”

“She did?” Jon said and felt like kicking himself. Wun Wun would have been brighter.

“She asked what could be said of the Night’s Watch if the second Lord Commander in a row was attacked and deposed by his own brothers. She said that if they chose to pardon your attackers and remove you from command, the men were still the honorless people they were when they first got to the Wall.”

Jon had just begun to wonder how they had let someone from King Stannis’ retinue—a woman—talk to them in such a manner when Satin went on.

“Ever since your attack, she has been gaining a lot of influence among the men. They were quite impressed with the way she foresaw it and was able to save you. Even those less sympathetic to the cause of her red god sided with keeping your post and condemning the mutineers.”

“I understand,” Jon said slowly, after taking it all in. “How did they die? The ones who attacked me?”

“They were given to her fires. Lady Melisandre said the sacrifices would grant us her god’s protection. Some of the men whose faith belongs to the Seven tried to rebuke her, but she said that fire was the cleanest death, that not even the Others could use a man’s body if he was killed by fire. The men had no response to that.”

There was something else nagging on Jon’s mind, and it took a few moments and a few more sips to the flask for him to utter it.

“What about the Boltons?” He said. What he truly meant was, _What about my sister?_

“The sworn brothers agreed that you weren’t to be blamed for your reaction. Ramsay Bolton threatened the peace on the Wall. No Lord Commander had ever been affronted in the ways you were. But they also agreed that none of that mattered anymore considering the bastard is dead, and—“

“Ramsay Bolton is dead?” The coughing fit threated to come again, but Jon was able to supress it that time, clearing his throat.

“Oh my lord, there is so much you don’t know.”

Jon thought he could hear pity in Satin’s voice and he hated it.

“The bastard lied. King Stannis was alive. There was a tough battle from what I heard, but the King took Winterfell back.”

“Was my sister there?” The words were out of his mouth before Satin had even closed his. “Is she alive?”

“King Stannis sent a raven. He’ll be sending a party to escort your little sister here to be guarded by the queen and her men.”

 _No. He is wrong._ I _am going to protect Arya._ If he messed up her hair, like he used to do back in Winterfell, would she laugh? Was there any laughter left in her after being married to the bastard of Bolton?

Finally, it was too much for Jon. He tried to slide back down into a lying position, but he had to stop halfway, a groan escaping him. Satin looked worried.

“Are you well, my lord?” he asked, one of his hands flying to hold Jon’s head by the nape of the neck. His fingers entwined on Jon’s uncut hair as he eased Jon's descent on the pillow. “Any pain?” Satin didn’t wait for a response and was already lifting his shirt, fingers scrapping against the paleness of Jon’s skin, touching his wounds. “They seem to be healing well enough."

Jon looked down over his own body. His injuries were thick, lengthy scars in vivid pink; an intense contrast with his older, discolored scars. Satin inspected his torso intently. It was weird the way Satin touched him, not asking permission, as if it was his right to see and touch Jon’s body.

 _I supposed getting my arse cleaned by another man builds a few intimacies between me and said man,_ he thought, with a flush.

It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, though. Finally, he said, “No, just very tired.”

“Oh, of course,” Satin said, as if he were apologizing for the liberty he had just taken, and covered Jon with his shirt again. “You went through a lot. You should rest.” Satin took a step back, standing on his feet, and took the lamp over the table. “Should I bring my lord a meal?”

“Aye, in a few moments. I’m starving, but I think I might throw up if I eat anything solid just now.” Jon’s stomach made a noise as if to make a point.

“I can bring you a bowl of gravy, my lord,” Satin said, attentive as ever.

“Aye, gravy. And wine if there’s any.” Now that he had drained the flask, drinking another drop of milk and honey felt nauseating.

“Wine thins the blood; it’s not good for those who have been cut. But my lord’s wounds are almost completely healed, so I’ll bring a cup.”

“Do that,” Jon said, feeling childishly grateful for Satin’s care and attention.

When Satin left, Jon closed his eyes and it was several hours before he woke again.


	2. Jon II

Jon’s eyes are closed, but he’s awake. He can’t stay in bed all day, so he finally rubs the back of his hands over his lazy eyes and sits on the mattress. He doesn’t call Satin to prepare him a bath. He bathed the night before, just before going to sleep, and still feels clean. The cold at the Wall discourages disrobing and getting wet; the water in the tub always cools down too fast for Jon’s taste, so his baths are as effective as possible in the shortest amount of time. Jon knows most men at the Wall don’t care in the slightest about hygiene, but he also remembers Maester Luwin's words about regular baths being a simple way to shield men from a series of afflictions, so he does his best to bathe at least every other day.

This time, however, instead of taking a bath, he takes water from the basin next to his bed and splashes it on his face. Even with the hearth in his chambers, the water is so horribly cold it feels like a thousand ice shards hitting his face. He grits his teeth, grunting, but the freezing water is good to wake him up. Getting out of bed has been difficult lately. Jon tries not to delve into those thoughts, but sometimes he wonders if it would have been so bad if he'd perished when his brothers attacked him. Sometimes it takes a lot of willpower getting out of his quarters in the morning.

Be that as it may, he does get out of his quarters that morning. He hopes he won’t regret the words in his mind, but the Wall seems a tad more orderly, tranquil even, after all the chaos he faced right after becoming Lord Commander. Food is still scarce, but the situation is a bit better. After overcoming the Boltons in battle, King Stannis seized their food reserves and had the common sense of sending part of the provisions to the Wall in appreciation for Jon’s warning about the Karstarks' treachery.

Even the matter of Wun Wun, an impasse he imagined insoluble, has found if not a solution, a temporary agreement. According to Val, Ser Patrik had tried to rape her, claiming he had the right to because the Queen had said they were to be married soon. Wun Wun was guarding her tower like Jon had told him to, and killed Ser Patrick when he saw Val fighting the man. Queen Selyse’s first whim had been to kill the giant, but the builders had great complains, for Wun Wun was of tremendous help in fixing the castles. Finally, Melisandre expressed her disapproval that Ser Patrik would try to violate Val, putting at risk all of Stannis’ plans to seal the peace between the North and the Free Folk, and that the Queen shouldn’t defend a man who would put his carnal desires above the commands of his King and the wellbeing of his fellowmen. Jon had already noticed the great influence Melisandre held over the Queen, so he wasn’t surprised when Her Grace gave up on exacting justice on the giant, and Wun Wun was allowed to go on living and working at the Wall, as long as he was as far away as possible from Queen Selyse and her retinue.

As glad as Jon is to see Wun Wun still alive, for killing him would have meant confirmation that having a giant at the Wall was a poor decision, he's displeased that Melisandre was once again the center piece of a matter’s unfolding. He fears owing her too much, being incapable of disentangling himself from her influence in the end. She's like a force of nature, transforming everyone and everything in her wake.

Even so, Jon tries to enjoy the fragile calmness of things at the Wall. His only worry is how long it’s going to last. Calmness only makes him think of storms that come thereafter—long summers being an omen of even longer winters.

For a few days, Jon has been expecting a new batch of recruits. It’s even harder to find them lately, with war all over Westeros. But Matthar, a ranger traveling now as a recruiter, is at times able to find starving, half-dead smallfolk willing to join the Night’s Watch, hopeful that there is more food at the Wall than on the fields. He's been gone for a while now, and Jon expects his return for some time soon. Jon doesn’t like to imagine the disappointment on the peasants’ faces when they realize how frugal the meals at the Wall are.

This morning, when he gets to the yard, he isn’t let down. He finally sees the tired, hungry, unknown faces of the men who will be his brothers of the Night’s Watch. They are few, and Jon gave up hoping he'll have as many men as the Wall needs any time soon, but at least they’re recruits—at least they’re there. Jon observes them, trying to predict who among them will be unruly and who will be dutiful. He’s walking through the rows of men when one recruit draws his attention and he can’t stop staring.

Dark circles color the man’s hollow eyes. His hair is uncut, a tangled mess of light threads. Hunger is evident in all the recruits, but this man looks emaciated. It’s a gelid morning at the Wall, but the sudden tremors taking the man’s body as he stands in the yard don’t seem related to the weather. And yet… There's something about him that Jon can’t put his finger on. Something that gets to him. He looks at the man’s chapped lips and tries to imagine that mouth uttering the words.

 _I thought you said you wanted me to show you how to properly hold a bow._  
_You have to feel my body moving._ … _Can you feel me move?_  
_Oh gods, fuck me just like that_

Embarrassed by his thoughts, Jon turns to Matthar, but can’t get a full sentence out of his mouth. He clears his throat and tries again.

“I-I have important reports from Shadow Tower to read now. Explain the recruits their routine,” is all he says before fleeing back to his chambers.

* * *

Jon does try to read the reports from Shadow Tower when he reaches his chambers, but finds it impossible. His hands are sweating and he’s unable to keep them still. A thousand things rush through his mind; until he sorts out what he just saw, it will be impossible to focus on his work. Then Matthar is at his door, asking permission to come in as if he somehow knew Jon needs to speak to him.

Jon worries asking right away would seem too eager, but he immediately dismisses the thought. If that person is who Jon thinks he is, the odd reaction would be acting unconcerned to what brought him to the Wall. Keeping his voice firm and trying to convey just the right amount of interest, Jon says, “I may be greatly mistaken, but… was that Theon Greyjoy standing in the yard amongst the recruits?”

Matthar’s response is immediate, but even if it weren’t, the way his upper lip curls in disgust would be answer enough. “That shiverin’ bag o’ bones? The Turncloak, that’s him.”

When Jon notices Matthar's words left him slackjawed, he shuts his mouth at once, tightening his jaws. He was sure; from the moment he set eyes on Theon at the yard, he was sure, but part of him almost hoped it wasn’t true. He wished this confrontation wouldn't come. But it is true.

“Theon Greyjoy,” Jon begins, but in his mind, he says _The man who wears his name,_ “rejoined his family in the Iron Islands, attacked Winterfell, killed my two little brothers, gave my sister to be married to Ramsay Bolton, and the last news I heard of him were of his captivity by King Stannis. How is he here? Allowing him to take the black is unlike Stannis Baratheon.”

“I ask m’lord to forgive me lack of information, but His Grace didn’t share his wineskin with me speaking of me his reasons.”

“Aye, I’m aware,” Jon says, impatient and mildly irritated that Matthar won’t simply tell him what he needs to know. “But you surely heard something from the soldiers, from the bloody camp followers, anyone.”

“I’m sorry, m’lord,” Matthar says and then adds, as if it were just an unimportant piece of information, “King Stannis sent you a letter.”

Jon’s eyes widen. “And where is it?” he asks, bordering on exasperation.

Matthar fumbles with his furs for what feels a lifetime before withdrawing a sealed envelope.

Jon hopes Matthar doesn't see how his hands tremble when he breakes the seal. He unfolds the parchment and takes a deep breath before reading. The letter begins with a curt thank you for Jon’s timely warning. Jon almost skips the entire paragraph, but refrains himself, afraid he may lose something important, and keeps on reading.

 _As a token of my appreciation, I send a dozen men to the Wall to strengthen the might of the Night’s Watch._ Jon mentally snorts at the quality and quantity of those men. They were probably disposable prisoners, additional mouths Stannis had no use for. Jon keeps on reading. _Among the men, you will find Theon, of House Greyjoy—_ Jon’s heart skips a beat— _who stands accused of treason, insurrection, oath breaking—_ the list goes on. Jon does skip that part. The confrontation once again forces itself in front of him, and once again he chooses to ignore it.

 _For those crimes, capital punishment is the only righteous outcome. However, two recent events must be considered._ Jon tries one more time to steady his hands. He is not even sure they are indeed trembling, but he holds the parchment with unnecessary firmness just the same. _Theon Greyjoy was directly responsible for the rescue of Lady Arya of House Stark—_ Jon swallows dry— _, taking her to my camp, as well as delivering internal information on the occupation of Winterfell, vital to the quest of returning the castle to its rightful heirs._ Jon briefly wonders who Stannis means by “rightful heirs”. With his brothers dead, Jon being a man of the Night’s Watch, and with Sansa missing, Arya was the only Stark left. With the Boltons dead, surely the King would return Winterfell to his sister?

 _While it is true that said actions don’t erase a lifetime of misdeeds, it appears that Theon Greyjoy’s biggest transgression—the murdering of Brandon and Rickon of House Stark, during the sack of Winterfell—was fiction fabricated to hide their escape._ Jon’s eyes go wide and his breath is caught in his throat. _Ser Davos of House Seaworth, Hand of the King, wrongly presumed dead, recently returned from Skagos, bringing with him Rickon Stark, along with a wildling named Osha._

Jon breathes again, but his eyes are still wide.

_The wildling woman had vivid descriptions of Winterfell’s inhabitants prior to the sack and of the sack itself. She was recognized by its few survivors. Even if those testimonies mean little to confirm or deny the boy’s identity, the direwolf that accompanies him does not. It is widely known that each of  Eddard Stark’s children possessed a direwolf of their own._

Rickon is alive. Bran can be, too. Jon’s shock is too great. The letter is almost done, and he reads along.

_Under the light of recent events, and considering the treatment the prisoner endured during his captivity by the Boltons, I offered Theon Greyjoy a life at the Wall, as opposed to a death by fire. What you do to him does not concern me, though if he does swear your oath, may he have more sense of honor than he did until today._

_I request your visit to Winterfell in the briefest of times to testify that the boy is indeed Rickon Stark. Theon Greyjoy’s word, being a turncloak, is invalid. For the same reason, I send you Lady Arya in this retinue, so her identity can be assessed and she can be placed under the Queen’s protection._

After that, there is King Stannis’ signature and his long stream of titles, but Jon doesn’t read that. Instead, he stares at Matthar, incredulous.

“You had my sister all along and did not tell me?” Jon’s fingers are stiff around the parchment. His other hand grabs the edge of his wooden desk with such force that the tip of his fingers go white. He needs to keep his hands steady, otherwise he may hit Matthar in the face.

Matthar looks truly chagrined. He opens and closes his mouth thrice. If anything, it upsets Jon further.

“Speak!” he commands.

“She’s—she’s dead, m’lord.”

For a moment, it is like Matthar is talking to him from across a very long corridor, sounding distant to Jon's ears. Jon frowns, and asks _What?_ as if he hasn’t understood what Matthar just told him. But he did understand it. He is just stupefied.

Matthar goes on. “She died on the way, m’lord. The lady was already skin and bones when the King gave her to us. She had a cough, m’lord. Every time she coughed, ‘twas like her ribcage was cracking open. We gave her blankets, gave her herbs to chew on. It didn’t work, Lord Commander.”

Jon looks down and presses his index fingers hard against the inner corner of his eyes. There is a tight lump in his throat. His little sister is dead. He doesn’t care for Matthar’s excuses.

“Where is her body?” Jon’s voice is surprisingly steady when he asks.

“I brought it here at the tower, downstairs.”

“You can go now,” Jon dismisses him.

Only a few moments after Matthar leaves hesitantly, Jon opens his door and goes down the stairs, trying to keep his chin from trembling.

He finds her downstairs, like Matthar said he would. Her body lies on an improvised sledge, probably used to bring her here without dismantling her corpse. Corpse—the word sounds wrong in his mind. Too final, too irrevocable. His little sister is dead. He kneels beside her.

And then it all seems strange. She seems strange. Arya had always been a short little girl. And the girl lying before him is… tall. Mayhaps not as tall as Sansa, but taller than he ever expected Arya to be. Her eyebrows are delicate, thin, so unlike Arya’s dark ones. The tip of her nose is black from frostbite, but that doesn’t distract him. It’s a different nose. It dawns on him. It’s a different person. This is not Arya. The girl’s traces are vaguely familiar, but this is not Arya.

Why would the King send him a fraud? That doesn't sound like the man at all. Does the King even know this girl was a fraud? If this girl is here, where is Arya? _Arya is alive,_ he thinks in a moment of irrational hope. If Rickon is alive, mayhaps she is as well. Anything is possible. _No. She is still missing, dead too, most likely. Or is she?_ A few moments ago, knowing that Arya was dead had been horrifying, but being back to this doubt is cruel.

He thinks of calling Matthar back and asking him to explain the meaning of this, but realizes his effort will be vain. Matthar is not the one with the answers he wants. Theon Greyjoy is. The time has come for Jon to finally see what the man from his memories has become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for every kudo, comment and bookmark. You guys make me delighted!  
> Next chapter will be here next week.


	3. Theon I/Jon III

Theon’s arrival at the Wall isn’t what he thought it would be. Too used to being a prisoner, glared at like he’s a grotesquerie, he half-expected to be locked up with a gaoler at his door. But there's no such thing; the recruits are free to choose their own cells, and there are many to choose from. Castle Black is a little like Theon—a shadow of its former self, ruined.

Theon chooses a cell somewhere men called Hardwin’s Tower A couple of other recruits do so, too, but the cell Theon chooses is far from theirs. Seclusion feels safer. There is nothing in the cell for him besides four walls and straw on the floor. He was given clothes before leaving King Stannis' encampment, so he could endure the journey north, but that was it. Right now, the wool and leather he wears are his only possessions, so he isn’t bothered by the lack of furniture; he wouldn’t have anything to put in a chest, had he been given one. The straw in his cell looks recent, and his tattered cloak is still thick enough to shield him from the worst of the cold; he has a sheltered place to sleep, and daily meals. There's no reason to complain. Lord Ramsay taught him to appreciate what he's given.

“This used to be my cell when I first came to the Wall,” says someone behind Theon, catching him unawares.

Theon turns around to see. Clad in black furs and black leather, the engraved hilt of a sword by his side, Jon Snow stares back at him. His beard looks more than a few days old, and the dark curls frame his face just the way Theon remembers. It's strange calling him Snow now that they are both dressed in black, at the end of the world, stripped of a family. Back in Winterfell, Theon used to take pleasure in calling him that, like the boy’s own name was his biggest shame. Now, Theon might not be Snow, or Pyke, but he’s not a Greyjoy either, not anymore. So what right does he have to call Jon a bastard?

“Have you come here to take it back?” It isn’t Theon’s intention to sound mean. He doesn’t have it in him to indulge in petty altercations like the two of them did as boys in Winterfell.

“Where is Arya?” Jon asks, eyes unblinking.

Theon is staring at a crack on the floor when he answers, “She just kept coughing, shivering, could hardly stay put on her horse. Told her he couldn’t get to us now, that it was just a little longer, that she was free…” The crack draws twisted lines on the floor. “They made her a sledge, brought her here.”

Theon isn’t ready for it when Jon pushes him against the nearest wall. It isn’t a hard shove, but Theon’s bony back feels the stone behind him, and he exhales.

“I don’t care about that dead girl,” Jon blurts out as his irritation flares. “Where is Arya?” he repeats. “Where is my little sister?” Jon is angry, but Theon also notices how truly sad he sounds.

Theon’s uneasiness is so great that he stares at Jon, the crack on the floor forgotten. “You don’t care about her because, to you, she was not your little sister, but she died to become Lady Arya. Lord Ramsay wanted your little sister’s claim, so he made that dead girl learn her name, and it was hard on her.” Theon hasn’t spoken so much at once in a long time. His voice is strange in his own ears. He doesn’t know if Jon truly doesn’t care, or if he said it out of anger, but Theon goes on anyway. “She is just a dead girl, aye, but before that she was in pain, she cried, she begged, but you don’t care because she was not your little sister.”

The grimace disappears from Jon’s face, leaving a shamed look in his eyes. He lets go of Theon, and says with a more even voice, “Who was she?”

“Her name was Jeyne.” _Rhymes with stain._ “You should remember her. But you don’t. You don’t care if she was raped, beat, flogged... Because she was just the steward’s daughter and not your little sister. With all your Stark morality, you can’t find it in you to be sorry for a dead girl.”

“It’s not like that,” Jon murmurs, defending himself.

Theon doesn’t say anything because he’s thinking of Jeyne.

She shouldn’t have died. Theon should have. It made sense—Ramsay had him longer, it made sense that he’d perish first. But he endured just to watch her die, just to watch the girls die. They had no sins, and he has too many. Jeyne shouldn’t have died. Neither did Kyra, Beth, and Alison. Every time he draws breath, he’s ashamed of being alive, yet he still wants to live. How absurd is that? Mayhaps, if Theon gets him angry enough, Jon will give him the death he deserves—not the death he wants; he never wanted it, did all those things because he didn’t want it.

He intends to taunt Jon, to remind him of the horrible person he is—a turncloak, a traitor. He wants to force Jon’s hand, make him have no choice but killing Theon. But what he ends up saying is, “I’ll be a man of the Night’s Watch. All my past faults are forgiven. You can’t kill me.” He sounds afraid.

It’s ridiculous what he’s just said. If Jon wants to kill him, no one will stop him. If Theon dies, no one will cry for him.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

Theon wonders why.

Jon sounds defeated when he says, “Was there any sign of… the real Arya? My sister?”

Theon almost protests when Jon implies that Jeyne wasn’t Arya, after all Reek had done to make sure that she understood, that she learned. But Theon takes a calming breath. Jon hadn’t been there. He’d never understand.

“No,” Theon says finally, “I never saw your sister. He didn’t need her. He only needed her claim.”

“And Robb?” Jon is hesitant when he asks. “You were his…” It sounds like he is going to stop there, or doesn’t know how to finish. “His friend. And you betrayed him. Why?”

Theon narrows his eyes, tries to think of those quieter times. It's like wandering though fog. “When Robb was growing up,” he starts, not knowing exactly where this will take him, “he looked up to me. He admired me. To everyone else in Winterfell, I was just a Greyjoy, a thing to be taken to the block if my father ever rebelled again. But with Robb it was… different. Until it wasn’t.”

“What are you talking about?” Jon looks clueless. “We were boys, and you were older, more seasoned, you and Robb were— You two did—" Jon interrupts himself, stops for a moment, and goes on. “He cared about you.” It's like he had meant to say something else.

“Winterfell was never my home. Ser Rodrik made that clear with every thrashing he gave me. Lord Stark made that clear with his distance. Lady Stark made that clear every time she talked about how Greyjoys are not to be trusted. They all treated me for what I was: a hostage, an outsider. Except Robb. Then came the war, and little by little, I wasn’t Theon anymore, and he wasn’t Robb. I was a Greyjoy, and he was the King in the North. When Robb sent me to Pyke, I tried to enlist my father’s help, but he made me choose. By then, I already knew I’d never be home in the North, so I had to try my luck with the Iron Islands, by my father’s side. It was either that or become a prisoner in my own birthplace, because father would never let me go back. From that point on… It all happened too fast. And then too slow.”

Theon feels worn out when he’s done. He notices Jon for the first time in a long time. He’s frowning, looking at Theon with eyes of someone who is every bit as tired as Theon feels.

Finally he turns back to leave, but stops by the cell door, turns back to Theon, and says, “I _am_ sorry. For everything.”

* * *

Jon lies in bed, but he’s awake. It’s uncomfortable seeing how that's becoming a habit. He tries to induce himself to sleep, tries to convince his eyes to shut, but they keep snapping open. He blames the flickering light of the fire in the hearth. It reminds him of the fire of Jeyne’s pyre. Theon and Jon watched it burn together that afternoon.

There is no place to light a fire in Theon’s cell. That section of Hardwin’s Tower has just a few torches lined up on the corridors’ walls. Jon wonders how cold is there, if the battered cloak he saw Theon wearing gives him any warmth. It’s only natural to be worried about it. He wouldn’t want a recruit dying of cold only hours after coming to the Wall.

 _It’s him_ , Jon’s mind keeps coming back to this thought. Theon is thin, his hair is several shades clearer than it used to be, and he speaks hoarsely, barely opening his mouth. As they talked in his cell, those differences stood out, but they didn’t distract Jon, because his eyes looked elsewhere, searching for the same details he paid attention to back when he was a boy. Theon at the Wall and Theon in Winterfell are precisely the same in those details.

The color and shape of his eyes is the same. Those eyes blazed before, in Winterfell, and they blaze now, but far more vividly. Theon’s nose is still elegant. His jawline is the same jawline that made Jon wonder what licking a long stripe of it would feel like. Theon is at the same time astonishingly different and incredibly the same. Jon had not prepared himself for that. As he made his way to Hardwin’s Tower, he imagined he’d see his memories turning to dust. He imagined he’d leave the tower horrified at Theon, for his crushed looks and for his sins, and at himself, for thinking of Theon for so long. Jon had walked into Theon’s cell hoping for answers, so he could put it all behind him, so he could see Theon for what he was and grow up from his boyish feelings. But none of that happened.

At four and ten, Jon envied Robb for being alone with Theon in Winterfell, while he freezed at the Wall. Now Robb is dead and it's Jon who has Theon for himself, for the rest of their lives. Jon twists on his bed and buries his face in the pillow, nearly groaning in frustration. It seems ridiculous to just... forgive Theon like that, but Jon tries so hard, yet he can’t find a single reason to hold a grudge. Jon will never stop mourning Robb’s death, but he can’t pin that on Theon. He did not kill Bran and Rickon, and he definitely didn’t kill Robb. And he saved, or tried to save, Jeyne Poole. Jon wants to think that, had it been Arya, he’d have saved her, too.

Yes, Theon has made a lot of poor choices. But Jon knows Theon has atoned for each one of them.

His suffering is written on his features. Theon looks ragged. There is no reason for Jon’s unspoken yearning to persist, especially now that he's a man, but it feels even more intense than three or four years ago. Jon doesn’t know what to do with himself. He rarely knows when Theon is concerned.

 


	4. Satin I

Satin is always ready when his lord needs him.

He calls Jon by name in his thoughts, because inside his mind, they’re a lot closer than they are in reality, as much as Satin hates to admit it. He still doesn’t know how to deal with the sudden distance between them. For three weeks, Jon hung on the brink of death and his life depended on Satin. For three weeks, they stayed together in that room, where Satin cared for him, washed him, fed him. It is strange to think of himself as being close to Jon because of those moments lived together. For Jon, they haven’t even been _lived_ at all—he wasn’t much aware of being alive for most of the time Satin took care of him.

But truth is that being close to Jon—watching out for him—became a habit that Satin is having trouble breaking. He got used to taking care of Jon, scrubbing him clean every day, feeding him a small sip at a time. Satin remembers Jon’s milky white skin under the light of the lamp, remembers the thick hair on Jon's armpits when Satin raised his heavy and half-dead arms to wipe him clean there. Jon’s body had been pliant, allowing Satin to maneuver arms and legs however he wanted in order to get Jon clean, but _too_ pliant. It scared Satin. As much as he liked being the one in charge of Jon’s personal care, tending to all his needs, Satin was scared. Lady Melisandre was often sending him salves and potions, and Satin made sure they were used exactly as the red woman instructed, but even so he was scared. He used to stare at Jon’s stab wounds, healing so slowly sometimes they seemed not to be healing at all, and wonder how much longer until they closed, how much longer until Jon woke.

And when he woke up, Satin was exultant. His lord had survived—he was fine, was going to be fine—Satin’s efforts had paid off. But now, after the initial joy, a strange sensation of detachment has taken hold of him. With each day, Jon needs him less. Still needs a lot, that much is true—Satin still fetches his meals, prepares him his baths, empties his chamberpots, tends to the fire in his room, takes care of his clothes. But before, Satin felt like he was _with_ Jon, and now he feels like he’s just… around Jon. Before, it had felt natural and adequate to think of his lord by the name. Now it feels… childish and unfamiliar. Even so, he isn’t ready to give that up. After Jon’s recovery, it’s one of the few things he has left.

So he grabs onto that and serves Jon as best as he can. This morning, he’s ready for Jon just like always. Every day Satin wakes up a little earlier than Jon, but doesn’t go to him until he’s called. There is a difference between being there for him and imposing his presence, and Satin intends to respect Jon's space.

Today, the sun isn’t even out and Satin is already awake and clean. Not that it’s that hard of a task lately, with the sun rising a bit later with each winter day. Being the Lord Commander’s personal steward, Satin has a room in his quarters. It’s a small cell, adjoined to Jon’s sleeping chambers. He has a mattress, and a chest, filled of things he brought from his old life. There is no fireplace, but Satin’s room is so close to Jon’s that the heat from his hearth reaches him well enough.

Warmth is not the only thing that finds its way from Jon’s chambers to Satin’s room. Sounds do, too. Satin wonders if Jon knows that. Right now, the sounds of Jon fiddling with the furs tell him that his lord is already awake.

Satin has just finished spreading the smallest drop of scented oil on his stubble when he hears Jon’s hoarse morning voice.

“Satin,” he calls.

As Satin goes to Jon, he can’t help but think how much he likes that his name is the first thing Jon says in the morning.

“Prepare me a bath,” he says. “I have to go to Winterfell. I shouldn’t be away for long, but it will be some time until I can clean myself properly again.”

Satin doesn’t like the idea of being at the Wall while Jon is absent, but there’s nothing he can do about it, so he nods silently and does as he’s told. Satin is efficient and in a short while the tub is filled with water just this side of too hot. It doesn’t matter. The cold makes the water cool down fast.

As Jon strips, it’s strange seeing his reserve in being naked around Satin, considering how well his steward knows his body. Satin probably knows it even better than Jon—he doubts Jon has ever looked at himself with half as much attention. Jon’s wearing only smallclothes when he nears the tub, and only takes them off an instant before getting into the water.

At this moment, Satin usually would have already retreated. After all, he’s a steward, not a handmaid. It isn’t expected of him—mayhaps not even appropriate—to help his lord bathe. But it’s been far too long. He quietly squats behind the tub, so quietly he hears a low surprised gasp escape Jon’s mouth. His hand touches Jon’s, reaching for the soap. It’s a subtle offer, one that he can refuse with equal subtlety. He doesn’t even need to speak; he just needs to shake his head no that Satin will never make that offer again. But Jon’s fingers loosen around the soap, allowing him to grab it.

Satin begins by soaping the parts of Jon that are already wet. Hands rub his neck, working their way up from the clavicles to where his beard begins. Then Satin slides his hands and the soap on Jon’s chest, going up to his armpits and covering his arms in lather next, first the left and then the right. The tension he felt in Jon’s posture at first is no longer there, but Satin won’t dare pushing his luck. He’s working fast, doing as best as he can, sliding down Jon’s stomach, one finger dipping briefly in his navel. He can feel the tension returning to Jon’s body when his hands go near his groin, but Satin skips that part, pretending it doesn’t exist, and touches Jon in a safe distance down his thighs and his legs. He soaps Jon’s feet, fingers going between Jon’s toes for a moment. Finally, a touch on Jon’s nape makes him move, soaking his hair in the now soapy water. Satin runs his fingers through Jon’s curls and thinks of how much he missed being able to do this.

It’s over faster than Satin would have like it, and soon he’s rinsing out the soap. Jon leaves the water the moment Satin turns to fetch him a towel. He roughly wipes himself dry and Satin turns his back, fetching his lord's clothes and furs, so it won’t look like he’s staring.

“Prepare me a satchel,” Jon asks him, “a change of clothes and provisions. Saddle my horse, too. Fetch me my breakfast and then call Halder here. For the time I’m away, the Wall will be his.”

When Satin is about to leave, Jon adds, “When you’re done, saddle two more horses and prepare two more bags.”

“Two more bags, my lord?”

“Yes,” Jon confirms. “You’re my squire. You must accompany me. I’ll take Theon Greyjoy with us. You must have seen him, the new recruit. He’s staying at Hardwin’s Tower. I know the caravan has just gotten here, but it’s not safe leaving him alone at the Wall now.”

Satin nods and leaves the chambers, ready to follow his instructions.

* * *

After leaving the stables, the next place he goes is Hardwin’s Tower. Satin tries to imagine how that man’s first night must have been, the one they were calling a turncloak—Theon. He tries to remember how his own first night at Castle Black had been.

On Satin’s way to the Wall, almost all men in his caravan had ignored him. Except one, who insisted on tormenting him, especially during the night. He used to yell at Satin. _Catamite. Whore. Harlot. Deviant._ As they traveled, Satin wondered if that man actually thought he was getting to him, if he thought he was saying anything Satin hadn’t heard before. Satin isn’t a man to lose his temper, and he didn’t lose it then, but the man had been taunting him for days and the situation had grown repetitive and annoying.

“If you’re going to do something,” he finally said one night, “then go ahead and do it. But if you’re going to just keep spewing crap, then shut your mouth, because everyone here wants to sleep.”

It had been a risky thing to do—after all the man was a lot bigger than he was. Satin thought of Merry, the cleverest whore he had met in Oldtown, and of how she had taught him how to move. Neither he nor Merry were fighters of any kind, but Merry knew enough to protect herself and she had taught him. They both worked indoors, in one of the best brothels in Oldtown, and that made rapes less likely to happen, but they also visited the markets all the time, and there was no telling of when a drunkard or a sailor would think it was their right to have them simply because they were whores. So she had taught him how to escape someone’s grip, how to bust a man’s nose, where to kick and what to pull, but none of that had been necessary. The man who recruited him didn’t tolerate insubordination in his caravan, and yelled, “Listen to the whore and shut your damned mouth, or I’ll shut it for you!”

By the time they got to the Wall, the name calling had ended and he barely even heard a snort from fellow recruits. But Theon’s first night… How had that been?

When he gets to the cell, the door is open. Theon is squatting by the straw on the floor, setting it in a neat pile. Satin approaches silently, watching him. He looks like he’s come from one of Merry’s stories about skeletons animated by warlocks in Essos—a skeleton wearing clothes, with clear eyes, in a hostile place. Satin doesn’t know exactly what he did before the Wall, but can’t feel animosity for someone who looks so fragile.

“Theon?” Satin asks, voice soft.

He gets on his feet in a heartbeat, but his shoulders are hunched and he looks like he’s trying to protect himself. He doesn’t look Satin in the eyes, his gaze lost somewhere down to the left. Satin knows better than to show any form of kind touch toward the brutish men of the Night’s Watch, but he doesn’t feel Theon is a threat. He looks like a dry leaf about to fall from a tree. A gentle touch may be exactly what he needs, after all.

Satin touches Theon’s chin, wants to lift it, make Theon see it’s fine to look him in the eyes. His touch is light as a feather, but Satin might’ve as well slapped him with the way Theon pulls back, getting out of his reach.

“I’m sorry,” Satin says hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He waits to see if Theon will say anything, but he doesn’t. At least now he’s looking at Satin.

When he remains silent, a spooked look on his eyes, Satin goes on, “Have you unpacked yet?”

“Nothing to unpack, my—” Theon interrupts himself, like he doesn’t know what to call him. Satin is not a lord, so he can’t call him that.

“Satin. You can call me Satin,” he offers.

“Satin,” Theon repeats after him.

“That’s quite fine,” Satin says, hoping his voice sounds comforting. “Because you’re coming with me. I know you just got here, and life on the road is unpleasant, but Lord Commander Jon Snow will have to leave Castle Black for some time, and he wants to take you with him. He said it’s not safe to leave you on your own here so soon. The North remembers, they say. And right now, the North doesn’t seem fond of you.”

Theon lowers his eyes again and looks like he wants nothing but to run and hide. He’s definitely hiding now, behind a curtain of discolored hair. Satin tries again, a lot slower this time, and takes a lock of his hair, tucking it behind his ear, revealing a bit of his face. Theon doesn’t flinch, but he looks far from comfortable.

“You needn’t be afraid. It’s just a short trip to Winterfell. I’m his lordship’s squire, so I’ll go too. It’ll be just the three of us. Everything will be fine. We’re leaving after breaking our fasts. Eat something and get ready. I’ve already saddled your horse.”

Satin leaves the cell a moment later. Theon looked like a trapped animal, scared. Satin wonders what would take it to make him trust again.


	5. Theon II

This travel is a deception, a trap, and Theon knows it. Jon is taking him to a distant place, somewhere far away so he can be killed discreetly. That way Jon can go back to the Wall later, and say Theon was so weak he fell from his horse, hit his head on a stone and died. Jon would get rid of him without having to admit to killing his own recruit. It’s either that or… King Stannis is in Winterfell. He probably called Jon there to tell him he’s changed his mind, and that he’ll burn Theon after all. Theon wonders if begging for a beheading—a northerner death—would do him any good. Lord Ramsay liked watching him beg, but he doesn’t know what King Stannis wants, didn’t have much time to figure it out. He still hasn’t learnt the rules of this new game, and they change too fast, all the time. 

Jon leads the way, riding tall, sitting upright. Theon’s horse is well-fed, young and strong, very unlike the half-dead animal Lord Ramsay had given him when Theon was ordered to deliver Moat Cailin. Despite that, it doesn’t take long for him to realize he’d never be able to make the animal go as fast as it could. His maimed hands can’t hold the reins firmly enough, and he can’t stand the jolts on the bumpy road. 

The young man that had talked to him, the one called Satin, rides by his side. Shortly after they left Castle Black, he had said, “Don’t worry about keeping up. Riding too fast will wear the animals out, and we have a long way to go till the end of the day.” 

The boy has been kind ever since the first time they met. His sweet voice, his generous smile and that soft touch of his hand on Theon’s hair back at the cell only make him suspicious and fearful. Even more than the harsh words spat at him by the other men of the Night’s Watch. At least Theon knows what to expect of them. With this boy Satin, he has to stay alert to see when his mildness will turn into vicious attack. 

They ride all morning. It may be just an impression, it’s probably not even true, but Theon imagines it gets less cold with each step they take away from the Wall. Mayhaps it’s just that seeing an immense wall of ice makes him more aware of the cold he feels. Even though it feels like it’s a little less cold, it doesn’t mean much because he still feels the freezing wind on his face, making his lips feel numb. He remembers the cold in Lord Ramsay’s dungeons, when he had nothing to cover himself with, aside from rotting straw and rotting clothes, thinks of Jeyne’s nose going black with frostbite. If the greenland gods really want to make men suffer, one of their seven hells should be a cold one. 

As they ride, Theon sees the sun rise in the opaque, cloudy sky. It has passed its highest point when Jon announces it’s time for a break. It’s a little after midday, and probably the warmest it’s going to get. Satin takes a package that’s strapped on his horse’s saddle, brown cloth wrapped around something. It’s a long bow. This is it, this is when it happens. They’re going to kill him now. Theon wonders why a long bow, though. Jon has a perfectly good sword, heavy steel that would chop off his head easily. Mayhaps Jon likes the irony of killing him with Theon Greyjoy’s weapon of choice. 

But Satin doesn’t aim at him. He readies himself, bow and arrow in hands, and studies the surrounding woods. They seem to go on forever. His steps are so light when he moves Theon can’t even hear dry leaves cracking under his feet, even though they’re everywhere. Finally, he draws the string, aiming at a distinct point among the trees. Theon holds his breath, watching.

Against all odds, Satin shoots a squirrel. It’s a scrawny animal, its eyes looking huge on its furry head. _In another time, I’d shoot every squirrel and would hunt down all the game that could be found here, I was that good,_ Theon thinks. But he immediately corrects himself. _No, that was Theon Greyjoy. I’m not him. I’m just Theon._ And soon he’ll be just Theon’s corpse, because he's being taken to his death, that's for sure. 

They make a fire to roast the squirrel. Theon brings his hands as close to it as he can without burning his fingertips. When Satin draws a small, curved blade from one of his pockets and starts skinning the animal, exposing its red flesh as the soft fur is peeled off, Theon feels nauseated. The last time he saw an animal being skinned, it hadn’t been a squirrel. And it hadn’t been dead.

When the meal is ready, Theon sucks on the hard, dry meat as long as he can before swallowing chunks too big for his throat—the splints of his teeth can’t take small bites from the squirrel’s legs. Each time they close around the meat and he pulls, ripping it off from the bone, it feels like someone is sticking needles into his gums. Lord Ramsay may be dead, but his games are still taking their toll on Theon.

Theon remembers the taste of a hairy, raw rat in Reek’s mouth, remembers kneeling by Lord Ramsay’s dining table, hoping he’d throw Reek a bone afterwards. Now, as he sucks on the squirrel’s meat, he tries to mask his discomfort as he knows better than looking ungrateful, but Satin has already set eyes on him, already noticed it. He takes the small knife, the same one he used to gut and skin the squirrel, and scrapes all the meat from the bones that are Theon’s share of the meal. Then he proceeds to cut the scraped meat in minuscule little pieces. 

Theon notices Jon has watched the entire interaction, intent eyes going from Satin to Theon. 

“Thank you, Satin,” Jon says. 

Theon thinks Jon is reprimanding him for his lack of manners, and repeats hurriedly after Jon, “T-thank you, Satin.” 

The meat is still dry, but now it would only be easier to eat if Satin had chewed it himself for him. He doesn’t feel any pain when he takes handfuls of the tiny pieces and slowly sucks and chew on them with his back teeth, which are mostly intact. When Satin hands him a skin of wine, Theon is so thankful he almost lets his guard down, almost forgets being alert. 

When they are done eating and drinking, Theon sees Jon walk away, putting a few yards between them, as he leans against a tree. Satin does the same thing. They’re pissing. Theon wants to take a piss, too, but he can’t. Not like this, not now. He feels the pressure in his bladder, but ignores it and the three of them get back on their horses, riding all afternoon.

* * *

By the time they decide to stop for the day, Theon’s bladder is about to burst. But he’ll handle it, won’t wet himself. Once Lord Ramsay played a game like that with Reek. Called him to have dinner together, but gave him no food. Instead, he let Reek drink all the ale he wanted, until his belly was huge and distended. When Reek begged to be excused, in desperate need to make water, Lord Ramsay asked him if he didn’t appreciate his lord’s company. In the end, Reek had been able to hold it in for more than half a day until he finally wet his already dirty breeches. Then Lord Ramsay whipped him for soiling his floor. So, when Theon gets off his horse, even though each step is a careful one, he knows he can hold on until the time is right. 

After tying the horses safe to a tree, Satin gets woolen blankets and furs from the traveling satchels, making sleeping arrangements for Jon, then Satin himself, and finally, for Theon, which surprises him. Their beds are close, but not together. They have a fire, so they won’t get too cold at night. He sees Jon and Satin get under their covers and mimics them, even if his bladder is too full to let him fall asleep. Time seems to drag itself. Finally, their breathings slow down and they seem to be asleep. 

When he feels it’s safe, or when he feels he can’t hold it in anymore—it’s hard to see the difference—he gets up as quietly as he can, making his way into the woods. He tries to be silent, but his mutilated feet make him stumble on branches. He doesn’t go very far. The woods remind him of Lord Ramsay’s hunts, and he wants to keep those thoughts as far away from his mind as possible. He stops himself before getting too deep into the forest and unfastens his breeches. The time it takes for him to unbutton himself feels painfully long. But then his breeches and smallclothes finally are loose around his hips, falling all the way to his ankles. Even alone, shame warms his face all the way to his hairline. He doesn’t want to be seen making water squatting like a woman. But it’s the only way he can do it without getting his legs wet ever since Lord Ramsay— 

It’s just the way Theon does it. 

After holding it in for so long, there’s a deep ache in his lower belly as the pressure in his bladder is relieved. He’s pissing, the warm stream of urine melting the thin layer of snow beneath his feet, and everything feels better. Until he’s seen. 

He hears someone behind him and gets up as fast as he can, pulling his breeches and smallclothes up. He holds buttons and strings firmly in his hands like his life depends on it. He turns around to see and it’s Satin, looking at him in the dark. Has Jon ordered him to follow Theon and ambush him in the dark, kill him there? 

“I’m sorry,” Satin says, “you were restless all night. You ran away into the woods, and you were taking so long.” 

Theon wonders if Satin thinks he was trying to escape. 

“I was worried. You didn’t say a word all day.” Satin stares at him, like he’s waiting for an answer, but Theon doesn’t have one to give. So Satin goes on. “Are you feeling all right?”

Theon nods. 

“Are you done with what you came here to do?” 

Theon nods again. 

“Then come, let’s go back. There are wild animals, hungry animals around here.” 

 _Well, you did steal their squirrel,_ Theon thinks, but doesn’t speak. He ties his smallclothes and buttons himself up again, taking care to hide what’s there and what isn't. Mayhaps Satin has already seen it, but mayhaps he hasn’t; it’s dark after all, and Theon had stood up fast. 

They go back and lie on their improvised beds again, but in a short while it becomes obvious that Theon won’t stop clacking the teeth he still has left. He’s too thin, so he gets cold despite the fire. But it’s fine, all he needs to do is take deep breaths, let his mind focus on something other than the cold. He’s not hungry, for starters. He just needs to breathe, and he’ll stop being cold in a moment, he tries to convince himself as he wraps his fur tighter and tighter around himself. And if he doesn’t, he can’t imagine Satin or Jon would be too pained when they found his pale corpse in the morning. 

But then he feels Satin moving; the boy comes closer, dragging his covers with him, until his chest is touching Theon’s back. Theon wants to run away screaming, wants to get as far as possible from another person’s touch. But it’s a gentle touch—like everything Satin does to him. Theon feels mistrustful and all his instincts tell him to _get away,_ but he’s just so cold. And he can’t say when was the last time someone touched him with such kindness. It feels like a lifetime ago. So he stays, he rests, trying to fight the tension he feels in his shoulders. Satin leans against him and whispers in his ear, “You’ll be warmer like this.” 

Against all odds, Theon relaxes, and he sleeps.


	6. Jon IV/Satin II

Jon wakes up as the sun shines its first rays. The fire is almost extinguished, a short flame burning as the coals around it crackle. He flexes his fingers and rotates his shoulders, trying to make an assessment of how badly his scars will hurt today, checking if riding on a horseback for the better part of the day has worsened the pain as much as he feared it would. He sits up, yawning, and when his eyes gain focus, what he sees is disconcerting. Theon sleeps facing the dying campfire, lying on his side, and Satin sleeps right behind him, embracing him, bodies glued together. One of Satin’s hands spans over Theon’s chest, as if pulling him closer, and his nose is buried in Theon’s light hair. Jon presses his lips together as he gets inexplicably angry at that sight. 

“Wake up.” His tone is so harsh it could only be made worse if he kicked them as well. “I want to be in Winterfell in three days, at most.” 

Satin opens his eyes, looking a bit dazed and even embarrassed. Jon regrets his tone instantly. 

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Satin apologizes, sitting up. “I don’t know how I could’ve overslept. The ride must have worn me out.” 

Theon and Satin are up on their feet in a heartbeat. Theon busies himself by collecting wood sticks and feeding them to the fire. Satin folds their furs and puts them back in the satchel, disappearing into the woods afterwards with a pot in his hands. He’s back in a few moments, and the pot is filled with water. 

“There’s a spring not far from here,” he explains. “I thought I heard it yesterday when we stopped for the night.” 

“Aye, I think I saw a couple more on the way, too,” Jon says, a lot less gruff. “We must be nearing the Last River by now.” They aren’t traveling fast, but their rhythm is acceptable. If they cross the river today, they’ll have traveled one third of the distance. 

Satin takes a handful of dry leaves from an herb pouch and throws them in the pot, putting it over the campfire. He then separates their portions of cheese and bread as they wait for the tea to boil. Jon takes that time to walk to the spring and splash water on his face. 

When he gets back, the tea is ready, and they eat breakfast in silence. The tea tastes bitter, but not unpleasant, and its warmth is refreshing. Jon can’t help but notice Satin chopping up Theon’s food again. As he watches their interaction, Jon thinks back to a question he used to ask himself as a boy—how does Theon charm people so fast? There had been Robb. The serving girls in Winterfell were always swooning over him. The tavern wenches always allowed him in their beds. Even the whores sometimes had him for free. Not even Jon had been unmoved. 

But now Theon is no longer the dark, confident, seductive youth he was in Winterfell. So the question comes back to Jon a tad different. How can Theon, broken as he is, charm Satin so fast? Why is Jon still affected by Theon?

After breakfast, the ride follows a rhythm very similar to yesterday. It’s easy traveling alone, without the delay and the complications that a large party brings. As he rides, Jon wonders about what he’ll find once he gets to Winterfell. He knows the Boltons had been repairing the damage caused by the fire and that Stannis is continuing their work, now that he has seized the castle, but Jon still has no clue of what he’ll find there. Rickon was three when they saw each other for the last time. How old is he now? Five? Six? Two years may be too soon for a grown man to forget someone, but that is half of Rickon’s life. He may not even remember Jon. But Jon trusts himself to recognize his baby brother. And there’s Shaggydog. If the direwolf is Shaggydog, he’ll know. 

He also has to tell the King that the girl sent to the Wall wasn’t Arya. He tries to ready himself for Stannis’ reaction; it’s likely to be caustic. King Stannis is a man who doesn’t react well to deception. Jon wonders if he’ll try something against Theon. He hopes not. Theon is his responsibility now. Stannis relinquished any right to exact justice on Theon the moment he sent him to the Wall. 

At night, the three of them sleep like they did the night before. They make a fire and Satin makes their beds on the forest floor. Jon forces himself not to pay attention to how Theon’s and Satin’s beds are arranged. It’s none of his business—why should he care? He lies down noisily, his back toward them, pulling his covers up until they’re almost covering his head, and forces himself to close his eyes. But soon there’s nothing to be forced. The ride made him so weary that he’s asleep in a moment.

Jon doesn’t sleep the whole night, though. He wakes up when the moon is high and bright on the sky, feeling a little startled. He knows he just woke up from an agitated dream, but his recollection of it fades away too fast, so fast he’s frustrated. He turns on his bed, and his gaze immediately searches for Satin. It’s a recent habit of his. After waking up from his torpor, feeling vulnerable and weak, Satin had been the only friendly face he saw for a long time. So now Jon looks for him every time he wakes up. Satin doesn’t have to be awake, doesn’t have to talk to him, Jon doesn’t even need to see him. Sometimes, just hearing Satin breathe as he sleeps in the nearby room is enough. It’s just the need of knowing Satin is there. 

Except this time he isn’t. Neither is Theon.

His first thought is getting on his feet and going after them—something might have happened. But in the heartbeat that separates inaction and reflex, he hears footsteps and restrains himself. There is movement in the trees close to him. Under the covers, Jon’s hand is already on Longclaw’s hilt when he realizes it’s Satin and Theon making their way back. They had snuck into the forest together, in the middle of the night, after Jon fell asleep. Jon closes his eyes fast, pretending to sleep, and hears the two of them lying down again, trying not to make a noise. 

Time passes. Three times Jon hears the interposed hoots of an owl, and he still doesn’t fall back asleep. He reopens his eyes tentatively. Theon and Satin are sleeping in a similar position to the one Jon found them this morning. Something warm and viscous bubbles its way up his throat. _They don’t have the right,_ he thinks. But if anyone asked him right then, _Right to do what?_ , he wouldn’t know what to say.

* * *

The third day of traveling is a repetition of the other two. If not for the discomfort of being on a sell all day, Satin could get used to a life on the road. Granted, he has done things in his life that got his buttocks in a lot worse pain than horse riding, but this soreness seems to gnaw its way through his flesh. His thighs hurt. His spine burns. 

Fortunately, despite what he said about wanting to get to Winterfell soon, Jon is good enough to allow regular breaks. In addition to eating and making his water, Satin uses that time to stretch his tired muscles as best as he can, touching his toes with his fingertips.

Even with that care, at night, his weariness is great. But what he feels seems nothing compared to Jon, who is barely concealing his suffering. Satin can only imagine how much his scars stretch and hurt. That was one of his main complaints after he regained his senses. Satin hears him hiss and starts rummaging through his satchel. 

Ever since she tasked him with taking care of Jon, Lady Melisandre has been giving him a number of salves. Each with specific instructions, but all of them with the same purpose—easing Jon’s pains, making him better. At first, Satin had been wary of it. He’s wary of everything concerning that mysterious woman, but in sight of the intense relief her potions brought Jon, Satin doesn’t hesitate. 

Holding a vial, he asks, “My lord, may I?” They’ve done it so many times that Satin doesn’t even need to specify what he means. 

The night is cold, like all nights in the North are, but their fire burns bright with recently added wood, feeling pleasantly warm. Sitting close like they are, there is no reason for Jon to fear shedding his cloak. It’ll be quick—he needs to do it just enough to open his doublet and lift his shirt, then he’ll be able to cover his back again. Even so, Jon looks hesitant for a moment before giving in. 

The thick mantle covers his back, but his doublet is unlaced and his shirt’s tucked under his armpits, baring his stomach and most of his chest, giving Satin all the access he needs. The salve is a purplish goo that he takes with his fingertips and rubs on the thick scars his hands reach. His fingers are insistent, as if he could force the ointment into Jon’s flesh with the friction. Then his hands sweep up, sliding underneath Jon’s shirt, dragging over the extension of Jon’s rigid shoulders, undoing the tension he finds there. His short nails dig into Jon’s skin softly, scratching him lightly. Jon closes his eyes, breathes in one time, two times. 

“That’s enough,” Jon says, dropping his shirt and looking away from Satin. 

It’s too abrupt. Satin feels cut-off. 

So he turns to Theon, who hasn’t said a word almost all day. His eyes are in that same position again, facing down and to the left. He looks like he’s being forced to stay while all he wants to do is flee. Which is probably true. Satin wonders where Theon would go if he could be anywhere in the world. 

The salve is thick, and the smallest drop spreads on a large portion of skin, so even though Satin has just massaged Jon’s stomach, chest and shoulders, his hands are still a bit sticky. He remembers the first time they met, back in Theon’s cell, remembers the way Theon flinched at Satin’s slightest attempt in contact. He should know better than trying again so soon, but if there is someone who could use a bit of relief, it’s Theon. 

So Satin tries again, against his better judgment, but his approach is a lot more careful than the first time. He extends his hands, showing Theon his salve covered fingers. _It’s just my palms. See? The salve won’t hurt you. I just used it on Jon,_ he doesn’t say. He’s afraid actual words will scare Theon off. He’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Touching each other at night is different. They can use the cold as an excuse and actually believe it. But now, with both of them awake, touching and allowing to be touched is a decision. It’s deliberate.

Satin almost sees the refusal on Theon’s lips, but it doesn’t come. He knows that the lack of a refusal isn’t the same as welcoming him in. But for now, he can work with the inch Theon gives him. He gets closer, slowly, and stands in front of Theon, towering over him. Right now, he won’t ask him to open his doublet and lift his shirt like Jon did. He doesn’t even have to. Theon's clothes are so loose around his body that Satin has no trouble getting his palms inside his collar, sliding down underneath his shirt, all the way from his nape to the width of his back. Satin’s movements are unhurried, a lot less vigorous than they were on Jon’s skin. Theon is sharp bones everywhere. Sharp bones and a tangle of scars. Satin wonders how old the most recent of the marks is. 

Theon’s skin has absorbed all the salve on Satin’s hands, and now they don’t slide so easily on his back anymore. There comes a moment in which Satin’s just cradling Theon’s nape in his hands, rubbing small circles on the sides of his neck. They stay like that for a long while. Despite all Theon’s reluctance to be touched, he doesn’t push Satin away. 

When Satin thinks it’s time for him to take a step back, he notices Theon’s eyes are damp. 

Satin feels very uncomfortable for a moment, like he has overstepped his boundaries, and asks, uncertain, “Theon?” 

And Theon answers, his voice so weak that Satin barely hears it, “I’m fine. It’s just the relief.” 

Satin looks over his shoulder and sees that Jon is lying on his side, facing away from the fire, his covers pulled firm over him. Satin muses that they should go to sleep as well. They wouldn’t want to be excessively tired when the sun rises again for one more day on the road.


	7. Theon III

The rhythm of their ride allows plenty of time for wondering. Theon doesn’t want to feel too self-absorbed, doesn’t want to think too much on his own life or what he’s been through. Letting his thoughts go idle makes bad things creep into his mind, so he tries to pay attention to something else. He focuses on the two men riding with him. 

Jon looks so different—and at the same time so similar—to the boy he met in Winterfell, like some of the traits he had as a boy have intensified, while others have faded away significantly. He looks a lot less idealistic, like he has seen that the world is very different from what he thought it was. Jon looks more serious, more somber. He rides his horse stiffly, sitting upright, but it looks like he’ll come undone if only given the right opportunity. 

Theon thinks back to the confrontation they had on his first day at the Wall. He expected more altercations after that initial argument, more finger-pointing and accusation, and a lot of poorly disguised hate, but Jon looks strangely collected. Maybe the travel actually isn’t a trap to get Theon killed. Mayhaps Jon really intends to let Theon live at the Wall just for the opportunity to order him around, humiliate him, just to be the bastard ruling the highborn—out of spite from their quarrels in Winterfell. If that is the case, Theon doesn’t mind. Jon isn’t Ramsay. He can’t do anything half as bad to Theon. 

Nevertheless, that doesn’t seem to be the case. Jon has never struck him as a passionate man, but now he seems too indifferent, almost as if he’s doing it on purpose. All this coolness between them feels strange, considering how one of Theon’s favorite amusements when they lived in Winterfell, was to get under Jon’s skin, provoke him. Sometimes Theon made him angry, and sometimes he made him blush with tales of bedding. Jon had always seemed so icy that it was a satisfaction to see emotion simmering in him, knowing it had been Theon to set the fire. 

Things were a lot simpler back then. 

And there is Satin. It’s an unusual name, but it doesn’t seem to bring him any discomfort. The lines of his face are sharp, and his nose is straight, but he looks very delicate with his brown almond eyes. His lips have a pretty shape. Slenderness fits him well, making him look light, agile, graceful even. 

Everyone has hidden intentions—nobody is kind just for the sake of it. For Theon, it’s important to understand people, to anticipate their blows. But he can’t anticipate Satin’s, and that bothers him greatly. 

When they stop for the night, Satin escorts him to the forest again when Theon needs to make water, like he has been doing for three days now. He stands in a distance that grants Theon privacy and still makes him feel safe. Satin’s excuse to escort him is protection from wild animals, but in Theon’s mind, Satin guards him from something else entirely. When they walk together in the woods, Theon doesn’t feel like he’s going to hear Ramsay’s bitches barking with every tree he passes by, doesn’t feel like he’s going to hear Ramsay’s voice at any moment, excited about the hunt. The woods feel like they’re just woods, not a giant rat-trap. 

When they go to sleep, Satin lies down behind him again. If Theon didn’t know better, he’d think this is something done out of affection. He knows Satin’s just sharing body heat, warming both of them up, but Theon feels like dissolving in Satin’s embrace. He remembers the softness of Satin’s palms when they spread relief over his aching back. It’s easy to be carried away by these acts of kindness, but Theon knows it’ll only make everything harder when Satin reveals his true nature. But it’s been days, and there is no sign of it. Theon’s getting tired of staying alert, waiting to be attacked. 

They get to Winterfell in the afternoon of the next day. When Theon sees the castle’s walls in the horizon, his stomach is flooded with an unpleasant feeling. He hates being back. He remembers climbing those walls with twenty ironborn and wishes fervently he had never done that. He wishes Robb had never sent him back to Pyke. 

Being in Winterfell reminds him of too much. It reminds him of when he lived there as a ward—happy in a way, even with Ser Rodrik’s thrashings, even with the mistrust in everyone’s words and eyes. Reminds him of the time he seized the castle and was led to make a few of the worst decisions in his life. Reminds him of being there with Ramsay, of how everything became worse as Jeyne’s suffering joined his own. Reminds him of spending days shackled as Stannis prisoner, until the day Rickon returned home and Theon was sent to the Wall. 

He feels dragged back to a past best left behind. The Wall is a novelty to him—he can build new memories there, less painful ones. He wishes he could just turn back around and ride there as fast as he can.

When they get to the North Gate, Jon addresses the gatekeeper.

“Tell His Grace Jon Snow is here.”

* * *

Instead of going directly to King Stannis, they’re taken to a small chamber in the Guest House. There are only two beds—feather ones, by the looks of it—but there are blankets and furs, so they can make do. He can’t remember the last time he slept in an actual bed. 

Satin looks somewhat amazed. “It’s so warm in here,” he says, dropping their travel bags on the floor. There is a small tub in the back of the room. His fingers touch its rim with admiration. “I can’t remember what it’s like to take a bath and not do it in a hurry because the water is getting cold.” 

Theon wonders what Satin would say of the hot pools in the godswood. It’d be nice taking him there, but Theon fears facing the heart tree again. The gods had seen him, had spoken to him, and Theon worries about what they’ll have to say now that he has failed with Jeyne. 

“Winterfell was built over hot springs. The water is piped through the walls,” Jon explains, removing his cloak. 

“My lord must have been very happy growing up here,” Satin comments. 

Jon gives him a lopsided smile, and says, “Theon must have been too. He lived here as well. We grew up together.” 

Theon keeps to himself, wondering if Jon is trying to get a reaction. 

A few moments later, food arrives. There are still several hours until supper, and breakfast was their last meal, so the tray couldn’t have come in a better moment. They eat bread, soaked in soup. Right now, Theon is warm, clean, well fed, and dressed. He has trouble remembering the last time he was all those things at once. 

After their meal, a messenger comes and tells them King Stannis is summoning Jon. To Theon’s great surprise and fear, Jon addresses him. “Theon, you come with me. Satin, feel free to spend your time however you see fit.” 

As they cross the courtyard toward the Great Hall, Theon walks looking down, paying attention to his steps, trying not to stumble too often. Perhaps Jon’s intention is to return him to Stannis after all, tell the King not even the Night’s Watch has use for one such as Theon. 

After their presence is announced, they are brought to His Grace’s presence. The King is sitting at the long table on the raised platform, taking the place Lord Eddard Stark used to sit when they dined together. Parchments, maps, and wood-carved pieces representing the Houses’ sigils are scattered over the table. Stannis looks even sterner than before, more imposing if that’s even possible. 

“You came without delay. It was appropriate of you,” is all the King says. It’s what passes as both thanks and welcome. “I wasn’t aware you’d bring the turncloak with you.” The discontent in his voice isn’t a good omen. 

“I was coming alone with my squire,” Jon explains, “but it felt too soon to leave him on his own at the Wall. I could not be sure of his safety there.” 

“You can’t be sure of his safety here either. I may have offered him the choice of joining the Night’s watch, but most northern lords think I should have sentenced him to death.” 

“Why didn’t you, Your Grace?” Jon asks. 

“I do what is just, not what I am pushed to do, and my bannermen would do well to see that. I take it you’re displeased with my decision?” 

“Not at all, Your Grace. A man’s past is wiped away when he joins the Watch.” Jon faces Stannis steadily as he speaks. “While Theon will be of no use in battlefield, the Wall has desperate need of men who can read, write, do sums, and draw maps. I appreciate it, and I thank you for sending him to me.” 

Theon’s breathing is shallow and quiet. He fears interfering in any way in this conversation. 

Stannis doesn’t answer. Instead, he signs to the guard standing by the door. “Bring me the boy,” he says. 

The guard nods, leaving the hall, and returns in a few moments—a skinny, short boy by his side. The boy’s face is twisted in an angry, childish grimace. He’s definitely older than Theon remembers, and he’s lost a bit of the roundness typical of babes. But the color of his hair is unmistakable. Theon remembers that color because it’s the same auburn of Robb’s hair. He used to love seeing Robb’s hair twisted in his fingers. 

“Yes, that’s my brother. That’s Rickon,” Jon’s voice pulls him out of his memories. 

“Without a question?” King Stannis asks slowly. 

Rickon interrupts them. “I want Shaggydog. I want Osha.” He pouts, angry and close to tears. 

 Jon looks briefly to his brother, and answers, “Without a question.” 

“We put the wildling woman to work in the kitchens and the direwolf in the kennels. The boy has gone too long without the vaguest notion of what being a highborn is. It’s time to take him away from savage influences and teach him again how to be a Stark of Winterfell. Did your sister get to the Wall safely?” 

“The girl wasn’t my sister,” Jon says, point blank, and goes on quickly, “but no, she didn’t get there safely. She was dead when she got there. A fever took her.” 

“Wasn’t your sister?” The King doesn’t raise his voice, but he pauses with each heavy word. 

It takes all of Theon’s willpower not to run away and hide. 

“She was Jeyne Poole, daughter of Vayon Poole, who was once the steward in Winterfell. I assume that she was used in a farce made by the Boltons to secure their claim over the North.” 

Finally the King’s fury turns to Theon. “That turncloak opened his deceitful mouth and assured me she was Arya Stark. That traitor lied to the King.” 

“Theon did what he did to survive,” Jon says, like it’s a fact that doesn’t admit debate. 

“I should have sent him to the stake.” Fire burns in King Stannis’ eyes. 

“But Your Grace didn’t. He’s a man of the Night’s Watch now. He’s out of reach of the King’s Justice.” Before Stannis’ wrath could spike further, Jon continues. “But his lie doesn’t matter anymore. Now Your Grace has Rickon, whose claim is stronger than Arya’s. Theon is no longer Your Grace’s problem.” 

Theon almost can’t believe Jon is standing up for him in front of the King. Then again, it makes sense. Jon has never been one to easily bend before people, has always had a sparkle of defiance in him. 

“Yes,” the King says, as if he hated to admit, as if he hated saying the word. “I sent him to the Wall. And I shouldn’t be surprised that a turncloak turned his cloak.” He pauses for a moment, pressing his lips and taking a deep breath before going on. “Now that the boy’s identity has been verified, I assume you’ll be going back to your Wall soon?” 

“Soon, Your Grace. I only ask permission to make use of your hospitality for a couple days while we make arrangements for the journey back.” 

“Yes, but don’t be long. You’re dismissed,” Stannis says like he can’t bear the sight of him for another moment. 

When they leave the Great Hall, Theon is astounded. They had met King Stannis and Theon isn’t a prisoner again. He’s going to go back to the Wall. He’s going to live. On the way back to the Guest House, he can't help but cast furtive glances at Jon. He wants to say something, feels like he should say something, but he's too perplex. So he just stares at Jon's profile as they walk side by side and thanks him silently in his mind.


	8. Satin III/Theon IV

Satin’s eyes are closed and his arms rest on the rim of the tub. He doesn’t even remember how long he’s been lying there, soaking. The water is still warm and he doesn’t feel any motivation to leave. The last time he took a hot bath for so long, he was still a whore in Oldtown. 

This is a part of the job he still misses. At the brothel, the whores had bath oils, scented soaps, perfumes, all at their disposals. If whores made enough income, they could even have personal handmaids. Satin even misses part of the job itself. He misses fucking. He misses the feel of a sweaty body against his own, large hands on his skin, being kissed. Almost all his clients had been men, and some of them Satin would fuck for free, so comely they were. Others weren’t comely at all, but were eager men who swallowed his cock as soon as they got into a room. Others wanted Satin to pound their arses for hours on end. And others... Well, there were others Satin doesn’t like remembering, that make him glad he’s no longer a whore. 

He’s still soaking in his bath when he hears the door of the small chamber open and close. He opens his eyes and sits up in the tub, wishing his towel was nearer, in case he needs to cover himself. But it’s Theon, and he’s alone. 

“I’m sorry,” Theon says in that hoarse voice of his, averting his eyes. “Jon told me to wait here.” 

Satin tries not to be jealous that Theon gets to call Jon by his name while Satin only does that in the safety of his mind. They had grown up together, after all. 

“It’s alright. I was almost done, anyway,” Satin says, and stands up, stepping outside the tub. His body is wet, dripping water on the dark floor of the room. 

Satin knows he has a beautiful body. He knows his skin is creamy, that his abdomen is flat and firm, that his legs are long and athletic with pretty calves, that his small dark pink nipples contrast with the whiteness of his skin in the most enticing way. His cock has made highborns, smallfolk, pirates, merchants, and sailors alike drool over him, wanting. He knows some men lust after other men, and that some men like women and men alike. He knows some men like women better, but think that in the end, a hole is a hole, be it arse, mouth, or cunt. And there are some men that actually only lie with women and nothing else. Usually, Satin doesn’t have trouble telling one from the other. Most men are easy to read, but with others, like Jon, Satin is never sure of where they really stand. 

Right now, the apologetic way Theon looks away tells Satin there is more to him than to ordinary men. He’s uneasy, aye, but he’s also hesitant. It’s been a long time since someone regarded him the way Theon just did. Of course, he has noticed a few stares from some men at the Wall, but those are different. They stare like it’s their right to stare—like Satin owes them that because he used to be a whore. Others are civil, but distant—lest anyone thinks they fuck men. Theon is different. Satin can swear he just saw something akin to want in his eyes, but it isn’t blatant, it’s guarded. 

“Do you want the water?” Satin asks, wiping himself dry with a towel in quick movements. “It’s still a bit warm,” he says as he pulls clean smallclothes and breeches on. 

Theon opens his mouth, but he doesn’t answer. 

“It’s fine, it doesn’t need to be now,” Satin says, getting the shirt over his head, “but make sure you clean yourself before we leave. Baths don’t get this warm at the Wall.” 

Satin is toweling his hair after lacing up his doublet, when the door bursts open all of a sudden. A beautiful, slender woman stands in the doorway.

* * *

“Theon!” Asha cries out, walking into the room and throwing her arms around Theon's neck. 

Her embrace is sudden, making Theon uncomfortable, but it’s not as bad as he’d have expected. Perhaps its suddenness gives him less time to be scared. Perhaps Satin’s gentle touches on the way to Winterfell make it easier to stand Asha’s hug. He considers returning her embrace, but she has already let him go. 

“I was afraid they were going to kill you on the way to the Wall.” 

Sometimes, Theon thinks the only reason they didn’t kill him was because they already had one corpse to deal with and didn’t want to account for two dead bodies. If that is true, it means that Jeyne saved his life in a way. 

When he doesn’t answer, Asha goes on. “Is the life at the Wall too horrible?” 

“I was only there for a day and a night,” he says, like it’s impossible for him to judge just now. 

He got no sleep on his first night. He knows Ramsay is dead—Stannis wouldn’t have secured the North if the Boltons weren’t dead—but that night, in the darkness, it was easy to lose track of things. His body tensed, and his mind wouldn’t relax, caught in irrational fear that he’d see Ramsay in front of him, that the cell wasn’t just a cell, but a dungeon at the Dreadfort, and that the chance of taking the black had been nothing but a dream, or one of Ramsay’s games to make him believe he had escaped. But Theon doesn’t tell Asha that. He doesn’t tell anyone that. 

“Why are you back here?” Asha asks, concerned. “Did the Watch reject you?” 

“No. Our Lord Commander didn’t think I’d be safe out there alone, and he needed to come here to identify Rickon Stark.” 

The door opens, and it’s Jon, as if mentioning him has summoned him there. 

Jon looks a little surprised to see that small assembly in the room. 

“Lord Commander,” Satin greets him. 

Asha eyes Jon with attention once she realizes who he is. “Thank you for looking after my brother’s safety,” she says, not humble, but sincere. 

Jon’s only response is a curt nod. Then he talks to Theon, “I spoke to Maester Pylos. He’s set an office in the Great Keep. He’s awaiting you there.” Jon leaves the room hurriedly before Theon can utter his refusal. 

Theon doesn’t see why he must go to a maester. He doesn’t need a scholar from the Citadel to tell him what he already knows—that he’s broken beyond repair.

Asha seems to think differently. 

“Oh, thank gods. I wanted him to see you for so long, but you were Stannis’ prisoner before and he wouldn’t allow it.” 

Theon wants to say no, but judging from Asha’s enthusiasm, he knows she won’t accept his answer. She’ll drag him there, if she has to. So they walk out the door, crossing the yard heading to the Great Keep. Satin doesn’t come along. Even though Theon is fond of his sister, he’d rather have come with the boy. There is no reason to expose his weakness more than he has to, and at least Satin has already seen how thoroughly he’s ruined. 

When they get to the maester’s office, it’s very obvious that it’s an improvised one. The maester’s tools and materials are scattered over the furniture, like he hasn’t had the time to get things in their places. The maester himself is a surprise. He can’t be more than five-and-twenty. Theon has met less than a handful of maesters in his life. The first one he met at Pyke, when he still lived there as a child—Maester Qalen was his name. Theon doesn’t remember much about him, except that the maester was very old. The second one was Maester Luwin, also an elderly. The third one, Theon doesn’t think he had actually been a maester. He didn’t wear the chains. Theon doesn’t like to think of the third _not a maester._

“Maester Pylos,” Asha greets him on their way in. 

“Lady Asha,” the man greets back. “I take it this is your brother?” 

“Aye, this is Theon.” 

Maester Pylos’ examinations go fast, to Theon’s consolation. The man makes him stand in the middle of the room wearing only breeches. The absence of his toes stands out on the dark floor. Maester Pylos palpates his belly, pressing different spots and asking him whether he feels pain. He pulls Theon’s bottom eyelids, checking the pink skin there. He checks the stumps on Theon’s fingers and toes, one at a time. The maester’s questions are many and very personal. _How is your apetite? How often do you defecate? What is the consistency of it? Is there any pain when you make your water? Have you been vomiting?_ Theon answers all the questions with as few details as he can while still satisfying the maester’s inquiry. The man asks Theon to spit in a glass, and then inspects his snot. He even checks inside his nostrils. Finally, he asks Theon to open his mouth, and presses his tongue down with a small spindle, taking a look at his throat. 

 “As far as I can see, even though he’s been through a lot, your brother’s healthy. He just needs to gain weight.” 

“Is there anything you can do for his teeth?” Asha asks. 

Theon only thinks of his teeth when he has to eat and pain floods his mouth. 

“I can remove the ones that are splintered. Most of them are front teeth. His back teeth are still pretty good and surprisingly show no signs of rotting.” 

“But then he’ll have almost no front teeth,” Asha cries out, as if it’s such a horrible fate. 

Her preoccupation with his appearance seems ludicrous to Theon. Hasn’t she looked at him? 

Maester Pylos, however, seems to think there’s something to consider. “There is something we could do,” he tells her, and then asks him, “Keep your mouth open, please.” And goes on, gesticulating with fingers still inside Theon’s mouth. “Several front teeth are splintered, but these two on the superior row… and these on the inferior row, they’re still in good condition. I may be able to use them as support for a piece.” 

“A piece? What kind of piece? You mean golden teeth?” 

“Not precisely. Golden teeth might be a solution, but he needs too many. See, I can take the teeth that he’s missing, fuse them with golden wires on the back to keep them together, and prep them so they hold in place using your brother’s remaining teeth as support.” 

“And where will you get those missing teeth? Carve them out of ivory?” 

“I’ve done this a few times, and that’s what I usually do, have the teeth carved out of ivory. But with the war and all the dead, there is no lack of natural teeth. I insisted on extracting all the good teeth of the dead I could find. I have enough teeth to make pieces for ten men like your brother.” 

“But you can’t put a dead man’s teeth in my brother’s mouth. Everyone knows the dead spread diseases.” 

“There will be no disease in the teeth your brother will get. I boiled them myself for hours on end in vinegar and herbs.” When Asha doesn’t seem convinced, he adds, “Aren’t you ironborn? The Greyjoys words are ‘We do not sow.’ What is the difference in taking a dead man’s gold, his sword, or his teeth?” 

Asha considers that for a moment. “Do you have milk of the poppy?” 

Theon watches their conversation, mouth still open around the maester’s fingers, seeing how they talk as if he isn’t there, as if Theon doesn’t have a say in what goes on in his own mouth. But he doesn’t argue. 

“I won’t charge you for the teeth. I have many, like I said. But I need gold for the wires, and the milk of the poppy will come with a price. As you know, it’s an item of high demand in a war and buying my supplies doesn’t come cheap.” 

“Of course,” she agrees in Theon’s stead. “I still have mine own coins, even if I’m a prisoner. Just tell me how much you need.” 

Maester Pylos tells her the price and Asha’s piling up coins on his desk in no time. 

“When can we return?” 

“Come tomorrow after midday. I need a blacksmith’s help to prep the teeth. It’s intricate work, so he may take a few hours to do it.” 

Asha takes Theon to his chamber a few moments later. Her eyes are serene when she says, “I’ll stop by tomorrow so we can go together.” 

Theon nods and gets in the chamber. He doesn’t care what he looks like, he doesn’t think dead men’s teeth will bring him comfort, but if that can make Asha feel better, he’s willing.


	9. Theon V/Jon V/Satin IV

When Theon enters the room, he sees Satin lying on one of the beds with a dusty book on his lap. There is a large candle on the bedside table and its flame burns tall. Theon looks around them, not knowing what to do. He doesn’t know whether to stand or to sit down, to speak or to keep his silence. It’s bad not knowing what’s expected of him. Mayhaps it means that he’s free to do whatever he wants, without having to fear some horrible punishment in case he makes the wrong choice, but that would be too easy and Theon knows better. 

In the end, he chooses to sit down on the unoccupied bed in front of Satin. There are only two beds, so this probably will be Jon’s. Satin has already claimed the other one as his own, so there’s only the floor left to Theon. But he has slept in places far worse than on the floor of a warm bedchamber in Winterfell, so he doesn’t have a complaint in mind. 

Satin looks very relaxed, but his brow is furrowed in front of the book. Theon hasn’t known many people who could read after he left Winterfell. He ends up saying exactly that. 

“I don’t read so well,” Satin answers, “I can tell what the words say, but it takes me some time, and my handwriting is terrible. I get ink blots everywhere.” Satin doesn’t say it like he’s feeling sorry for himself, but like he’s simply stating a fact. 

“What are you reading?” Theon asks, leaning forward. 

“It’s a book I found under the night table,” Satin says, sitting up on the bed. He closes the book around his fingertip, so he won’t lose track of the page he was reading. Then he softly pats on the mattress. “Sit by my side, let me show you.” 

Theon takes a moment, but he eventually crosses the small room, and sits on Satin’s left. Satin scoots over in his direction, sitting closer in a way that feels familiar, instead of offensive. Theon relaxes a little, leaning into Satin as well. 

Satin opens the book again, showing him what he’s been reading. “They’re all songs, the most famous ones. You can see the words and some pictures, too.” He opens the book in another page. “I was reading the song about Jonquil and the Florian. Here is when the Florian sees Jonquil with her sisters in Maiden Pool.” 

In the picture, there are several girls in a lake, with water up to their shoulders, while a fool watches them hidden behind bushes. 

“I know that book. It was Sansa’s,” Theon says. He had seen her reading that book once and thought how good of a wife she’s be—delicate and so beautiful. “Jon’s sister,” he explains, once he realizes Satin doesn’t know who he means. 

Theon doesn’t know how the book ended up in that room, though. The Stark’s chambers were not in the Guest House. 

“They’re pretty stories, but I like Merry’s stories better,” Satin says, closing the book and putting it aside. 

“Merry?” Theon asks. Perhaps Merry is Satin’s Old Nan. Old Nan always had the most dazzling stories. 

“Merry was my best friend when I lived in a brothel in Oldtown, before I went to the Wall. She liked to tell us stories before we fell asleep,” Satin says, which usually happened very late, because our nights tended to be busy.” 

Theon is still for a moment, staring at Satin. A brothel. Satin had been a whore. Theon is confused for a moment. He has laid with whores, many of them, but he has never actually talked with one—at least nothing other than trying to get them to lower their prices. Well, he still hasn’t talked to one. Satin isn’t a whore anymore. He’s a brother of the Night’s Watch now, Jon’s steward. 

“How were Merry’s stories?” he ends up asking. 

“Very exciting. With a lot of blood, shadow demons, ghosts and lots of depravity.” 

“I don’t like the blood,” Theon says, not thinking. 

Satin gives him an easy smile, shrugging, and says, “Well, there’s still depravity.” 

Satin’s tone is unconcerned, light, but something in his eyes makes Theon feel like the wenches in Winterfell must’ve felt under his own advances. 

He feels a bit cornered, but a sudden warmth fills him, a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time. But before he can say anything, their chamber’s door opens.

* * *

When Jon gets into the room, there is a moment of silence, the kind of silence that lingers when someone interrupts a secret and interesting conversation. He looks from Satin to Theon. Not that he needs to move his eyes a lot to look from one to another, because they’re sitting very close to each other on the same bed. And it shouldn’t be a surprise, really, considering how they’ve been sleeping together ever since their first night on the road. But Jon has never seen their closeness like this, in plain sight. 

He clears his throat as he closes the door behind himself, sitting heavily on the other bed, fatigue eating its way through his bones. He spent hours walking all over Winterfell and the proximity, as far as Stannis’ encampment went, visiting people who could be useful to the Wall and trying to negotiate with them. Lord Wyman Manderly, named Warden of the North by Stannis while Rickon isn’t of age to rule, is commanding Winterfell’s restoration while the King readies his men to war against King’s Landing. Kevan Lannister’s death has left the capital highly unstable, making it the perfect opportunity to march against the South and reclaim the Iron Throne. 

Jon spent a long time talking to Lord Manderly. The man spoke very slowly—his ragged voice and the thick scar on his fat neck a reminder of the attempt on his life—as he and Jon discussed the possibility of sending glassmakers currently under his command to the Wall. There is still dire need of greenhouses at Castle Black and Shadow Tower. 

Jon tries not to be carried away by frustration when he thinks of Eastwatch-by-the-sea, and how it’s lost to them. Against all odds, Tormund Giantsbane and his party had been able to get to Hardhome and rescue most of the thousands of wildlings still trapped there, but as they made their way back to Eastwatch, wights followed them in increasingly larger waves. The blue-eyed walking dead reached the men right as they reached the castle. Wildlings and men of the Watch fought together trying to fend off the attack, but ultimately there was no choice but setting the castle afire, burning most of wights and giving the men time to fall back to Castle Black. And during all of that, Jon was lost in stupor, nearly killed by his own sworn brothers. He doesn’t want to be overwhelmed by those feelings, but frustration, anger and even shame make his face burn when he thinks of it. 

He didn’t let that temper his negotiations with Lord Manderly, though. After quite some haggling, the man agreed to send to the Wall not a glassmaker, but a group of very young boys as recruits. Too many men have died in the war, which means too many orphans and too many widows—all of them mouths to feed. If the Wall could make use of fatherless children, Lord Manderly told him, then the North had plenty to spare. He also assured Jon than at least a handful of the boys would be glassmaker apprentices. It wasn’t a bad bargain in the end. Jon will have to wait a few moon turns before those new recruits get to the Wall, but at least he’ll have more bodies—even if they’re nothing more than green boys. 

Jon’s day has been wearisome, but he feels bad for being so tired. He wishes he could do more. Even though he’s doing all he can, it never feels enough.

Tired and frustrated, he welcomes Satin as the boy kneels in front of him and helps him take his heavy boots and woolen socks off. The floor feels cold against Jon’s bare feet. Satin’s nimble fingers are on Jon’s doublet in a heartbeat, helping him undress. For a moment, Jon feels a little self-conscious that Theon gets to see this. The way Satin takes care of him is a guarded moment of intimacy. Satin is the first person in Jon’s life with whom he’s been private. He and Ygritte did things under their furs at the encampment, out in the open for all the wildlings to see and jape about it. Back at the Wall, they all know about the wildling woman with whom he has broken his vows—Jon is part wildling himself, they say. This, whatever it is that he has with Satin, is the only thing actually his own. And now he’s sharing it with Theon. 

As he pulls his shirt over his head, Jon thinks it’s better this way. He doesn’t think he can keep Theon away from this—doesn’t think he even wants to, really. So if Theon becomes a part of it, he wants it to be voluntary. He wants to invite Theon in. 

“I need a bath, Satin,” he says, taking off his breeches. 

It’s been five days since the last, so it’s not an unreasonable request. There’s no reason for Jon’s heart to start pounding when Satin proceeds to get his bath ready, but anticipation makes his blood run faster. 

He has seen some private moments between Theon and Satin, so mayhaps it’s only fair if Theon sees what happens between him and Satin. 

When the bath is ready, Jon stands up and unties the lace of his smallclothes, letting them slide past his hips to the floor. He steps out of them and crosses the room, getting into the tub and sitting down slowly so as not to stir the water too much. From where he’s sitting, he casts a sideways glance at Theon. To his surprise, Theon doesn’t look away, but stares at Jon intently, big blue eyes set on him. 

The soap in Winterfell is a lot nicer than the one he has at the Wall. It doesn’t smell pretty, like flowers or fruits, but its lather smells very clean when he rubs it against a cloth. 

Before he can stop himself, the words are out of his mouth. “Will you help me again, Satin? Like you do at the Wall?” He’s talking to Satin, but his eyes are on Theon. 

Satin squats next to the tub and takes the soap from Jon. He rubs it between his hands and his soaped palms touch Jon’s neck a moment later. Jon’s heart has yet to slow its rhythm, and it doesn’t seem like it’ll be doing that any time soon. Satin’s hands are still delicate, even though the hard work at the Wall has made them rougher, and they touch Jon’s neck like Satin owns him. It’s a weird kind of nervousness that Jon feels now—Ygritte’s hand on his cock, as good as it had felt, didn’t make him feel so out of sorts. 

Satin rubs soaped palms on his clavicles and over his chest. Jon’s eyes flutter when he feels them grazing on his nipples, the muscles on his lower belly twitching. Jon has no recent memory of anyone but Satin touching him on his armpits, and while there’s nothing special about being touched there, there is an odd thrill about having Satin’s palms where no one else’s have been. 

Jon looks at Theon again. His hair is long in a strange way, like someone who is prevented from cutting it and not like someone who consciously chooses to grow it—which should be an insignificant difference, but to Jon, it isn’t. Right now, Theon looks at him from behind that curtain of hair. It almost seems like he’s hiding, except that his eyes are steady and his head is straight. He’s watching. 

Satin soaps his arms, his stomach and pushes his finger briefly into Jon’s navel. He did that in the previous bath, too. Jon’s lower belly gives that sudden twitch again. It’s too fast a caress for him to like it so much. 

Satin has just moved from behind him to his side, and now Jon can see his face, painted yellow by the light of the candle, tall dark shadows behind him. 

Jon remembers his last bath and the tension he felt at this same point. If Satin continues soaping him, his groin is next. 

This time, Jon looks at Satin’s eyes, stares at him intently. 

Satin freezes for a moment, just kneeling there, sustaining Jon’s gaze. When he finally moves again, he does it slowly, but steadily. Fingers trail down his lower belly, and Jon feels fingertips on the short hair that grows on the base of his cock. Then Satin touches his sac, holding his balls in a firm grip that doesn’t hurt him. Jon parts his lips, exhaling softly. Part of him wants to tell Theon that Jon may have been left out when it was Robb, but he won’t be left out with Satin. This time it will be different. 

Another part of him doesn’t care about any of that and just misses Satin’s care. 

Satin lets go of his balls and touches his cock. It may be a bit engorged, but it’s not fully hard either. When Satin pulls his foreskin back, the sensation gives Jon goosebumps. Jon knows Satin isn’t doing this for carnal reasons—Ygritte was the only one who had ever touched him in a lewd way. He knows Satin is doing it because that’s what he does, he takes care of Jon, and right now that’s what he’s doing, helping Jon with a bath, but Jon’s mind wants to rebel at that. It’s Satin’s hand on his cock. How can that be anything but lewd? 

Satin slides a finger around the head of his cock, cleaning him. Having his prick touched underwater reminds him of being in a cave with Ygritte, but this is better somehow. It’s gentler. Jon is definitely thicker now. He’s not hard like he gets at night, when he fucks his fist furiously, but his cock is halfway there, and he’s less ashamed than he’d have imagined. He looks at Theon again and feels his face going warmer. 

Satin lets go of his cock and slides his hand down again, fingers finding the way behind his balls, going toward his arse. Jon tries not to be bothered, after all it’s not the first time Satin touches him there—Satin touched him everywhere when he lay in a bed half-dead. He tries to ease into the feeling—Satin is just taking care of him, he _wants_ Satin to take care of him—but in an instant, his whole body stiffens as Jon feels tense and uncomfortable. 

That’s when the moment shatters. Theon and Satin look painfully aware of Jon’s unease. Satin is the first to lower his head as he stands up, fetching Jon’s towel, ignoring completely the fact he hasn’t scrubbed Jon’s legs and feet. 

Jon finishes scrubbing himself, doing it as fast as he can. Soon, he’s out of the tub, wiping himself dry and getting dressed with clean garments. 

He thinks his face may be getting red. He’s embarrassed by that blush, but above all, he’s embarrassed by having started that… moment between them, whatever it was, and at the same time, not being able to see things through. He gets into bed, pulling the covers over his head, a childish habit he developed on the road.

* * *

Satin has crossed the line. He had seen permission in Jon’s dark grey eyes, and he should have been content with what he had been given, he should have been patient—Jon was being generous, offering his body like that. But Satin had to push his boundaries, had to test his limits. Isn’t that what got him locked up in that dungeon in Gulltown after all? 

He hadn’t meant to be brash, though. It’s just that he had felt so warm, kneeling there, Jon’s cock in his hand, his own hardness trapped in his breeches, Theon’s attentive eyes increasing Satin’s arousal, that he failed to get a hold of himself and ended up scaring Jon. Satin only hopes that it’s temporary, that he hasn’t scared Jon away for good. 

But what’s done is done, so there’s no point in torturing himself about it, at least not now. When Satin lies on the bed, pressing his back against the wall, Theon looks like he’s about to stand up. Satin pats the mattress beside softly. Theon surely can’t think Satin would let him sleep on the floor. 

Theon hesitates a moment, looking from the floor to the bed. Mayhaps he doesn’t see sense in lying with Satin now that they aren’t cold anymore. When he makes up his mind and lies on the bed, Satin feels glad. Before Theon came along, Satin hadn’t slept this close to anyone in quite a while. Having someone to hug in his sleep has always been something he likes, and he’d hate to give that up now. 

He hopes it’s not excessive—he doesn’t want to spook Theon away like he just did with Jon—but he puts an arm around Theon’s waist and pulls him closer, cradling his face on the curve of Theon’s neck. There’s no rudeness in his actions, and his grip is loose enough to allow Theon to escape it if he wants to, but tight enough that it tells Theon that Satin would like it if he stayed. All things considered, this isn’t too different from what they did when they slept at the road. 

In the end, it doesn’t seem to be excessive, because Theon relaxes into Satin’s embrace. The bedchamber is small enough for Theon to reach the candle on the bedside table and kill its light. The room sinks in darkness. 

Almost asleep, not quite thinking of what he’s doing—like it’s just a reflex from some other time—he gives Theon a quick, soft kiss on the neck. Slumber captures him an instant after that.


	10. Theon VI/Satin V

Theon is the last person to wake. He opens his eyes and sits up slowly, wondering at the strange feel of the empty bed. For the past week, he has woken up by Satin’s side every day. But fortunately only the bed is empty. Satin is still in the room with him, folding clothes and organizing them in a pile on the bed. 

“Good morrow,” Satin greets him. “It’s nice to see you sleeping so well.” 

“Did I oversleep?” 

“You did, but it’s a good thing. You should regain your energy. The day at the Wall starts early. Sleep while you still can.” Satin tucks the folded clothes back into the satchels. “It will be lunchtime in two hours, but there’s still breakfast food if you want it. I saved you some porridge, a tea cup and a lime,” he says, pointing at a tray on the bedside table. “It’s cold by now, but I can take it back to the kitchens and heat it up if that’s better.” 

“It’s fine like this,” Theon answers, pulling the tray onto his lap. He likes this breakfast food better. There’s no meat, so it’s easier to chew. He knows Satin would cut his meat for him had he chosen to have lunch—he wouldn’t even have to ask—but Theon doesn’t want to be a burden. 

It feels odd having slept so much. His sleep is usually light; he wakes up from time to time, sometimes feeling frightened for no reason. He’s startled by the faintest sound, the softest step in his direction, but today he slept through both Jon and Satin waking up and leaving their beds. It’s uncanny. 

By the time he’s done eating, Satin has finished packing the clothes and is sitting on the bed across his, staring at him. Theon stares back, silent. Satin opens his mouth for a moment, and closes it. He does it again. It’s obvious he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. Theon doesn’t know what it is, but he can’t imagine Satin saying anything half as horrible as what he’s already heard in his life. 

“Theon...” He finally speaks. His silence is even longer after that one word, but Satin goes on eventually. “Did you show it to the maester?” 

Theon goes cold when he hears it. Mayhaps he underestimated Satin’s ability to say bad things. 

“There’s naught to show,” he says, hoping that will end any discussion on the matter. 

Satin does something weird: he touches Theon’s hands. Maester Pylos had touched his hands to inspect his stumps, distant and impersonal. That’s not what Satin is doing. He’s simply holding hands with Theon. 

“Theon,” Satin says, tiptoeing around it, “there could be complications. The person who did that—” 

Theon feels uncomfortable and pulls his hands back harshly, tucking them under his armpits. “Lord Ramsay—He—I’ve been like this for a long time now. If there was a complication, I would have known. I would be dead by now. My only complication is having to squat when I make my water, but that you already knew.” 

He can see the change in Satin’s body when awkwardness takes him. “Of course, right.” 

Theon spends the rest of the morning feeling bad for the roughness of his words, but he doesn’t know how to say he’s sorry.

* * *

After lunch time, Lady Asha swings by the room to get Theon so they can see the maester again. With Jon visiting the encampment in Winterfell, Satin has a lot of time in his hands. He washes all of Jon’s garments as well as his own—Theon doesn’t have any clothes other than the ones he’s wearing. He sharpens Longclaw and fixes the string in his bow. He even carves a few arrows from sticks he collected on the ride there. But keeping himself busy doesn’t give him any reprieve from the embarrassment he feels over prying into Theon’s personal matters. 

He did it out of worry, because he knows this is most likely Theon’s only chance of seeing a maester. Maester Aemon left to Oldtown with Samwell Tarly and the wildling girl, Gilly, and maesters from other castles aren’t an option either. Maester Harmune died when Eastwatch-by-the-sea succumbed to the fire and Satin doesn’t think he’d have been of much help, given his drunkard fame. Maester Mullin is still at Shadow Tower, but that’s too far from Castle Black. Besides, the black brothers have always said that Maester Mullin is more of a fighter than a proper maester. There are men in Castle Black who know some things about healing, but it’s best if no one knows the nature of Theon’s lesion. 

It’s not the first time Satin has met a man who’s been cut. Back in Oldtown, a boy named Alyce worked at the brothel for a short time. The men the boy took into his room seemed amazed that he was smoother than a woman, his voice softer. They looked at him like he some kind of mystic creature. Satin hated that. 

Theon isn’t cut like Alyce was, from what Satin could see that one night in the woods, when he unintentionally surprised Theon with his breeches down. He didn’t get to actually see it, but that much was obvious: on Alyce, they’d used the knife to cut a lot more. Satin shivers when he thinks of that. 

Theon gets back soon after nightfall. It isn’t late. Nightfall is just happening sooner and sooner every day. Satin looks up from the song book on his lap and stares at Theon, who’s leaning against the door. His sister is beside him.

“Was everything all right?” 

Asha smiles. “Aye. The maester got him new teeth.” She sounds very pleased with herself. 

Satin finds that he’s pleased with her as well. He doesn’t think Theon would have done it without her help. 

“I can’t even imagine how he managed to eat with that many broken teeth,” she says. 

“Satin helped me,” Theon says, without explaining how he was eating before he met Satin. 

It’s only three words, a short sentence, but Satin can see white teeth behind his lips. It’s impressive. Even his face looks different. 

“Maester Pylos was adamant that he keeps his mouth clean, so make sure he gargles on lemon water, if you have it at the Wall. Chewing snow will help ease the swelling if there’s any.” 

Satin is used to getting recommendations like that. Lady Melisandre had countless to make after Jon’s attack. 

“He had milk of the poppy, woke up not long ago. He’s not himself. I ask you to disregard anything unusual he might say.” She stops for a moment before going on. “Thank you,” she says. “You and the Lord Commander both. All I hoped for Theon was an honorable death, but now I think there might be more for him.” 

She turns around and leaves before Satin can think of anything to say to her. He wishes he had, though. It’s unlikely he’ll ever see her again after they leave Winterfell. 

Satin turns his attention to Theon, trying to evaluate the aftereffects from the milk of the poppy. Different men react to it in different ways. Some get delirious, some get drowsy for days, while others lose all sense of propriety and say things they later regret, if by any chance they happen to remember them. So far, the glassy look on Theon’s eyes doesn’t give Satin any clue. 

“How are you feeling?” Satin asks, guiding him to one of the beds. 

“Toothy,” Theon says, rubbing his tongue on his new teeth as he sits down on the mattress. 

Satin can’t hold back a chuckle. “Your teeth look really good.” 

Theon looks around himself, checking every corner of the room, as if it’s the first time he realizes where he is. Then he looks at Satin with unfocused eyes. “Thank you,” he says, and swallows. “The things you do make me nervous, but I like them. Thank you.” 

It takes Satin by surprise. He’s never imagined the words of an inebriated man could mean so much to him. “Thank you… for letting me help you.” 

“My—my clothes itch,” Theon complains, tugging at the hem and collar of his shirt. His speech is drawling and his words sound like those of a green boy draining his first wineskin. 

“It’s because you haven’t changed them in a long time.” Satin’s tone is soft. 

Theon doesn’t stink. Satin lives at Castle Black, and some men of the Watch have taken fewer than three baths for all the time Satin’s lived there and he even knows a few wildlings who don’t look—or smell—like they’ve ever taken a bath in their lives. Satin knows the stench of rotting corpses and he’s no stranger to cleaning bedpans and chamber pots. He knows what reek is. And Theon doesn’t reek. 

At most, he smells unwashed, like Jon had smelled when he got back from beyond the Wall. 

“These are my only clothes,” Theon says after a long time, like he had forgotten to answer for a moment. 

“I can share mine with you,” Satin offers. “But you’d have to take a bath first.” He feels bad for suggesting this now that Theon has had milk of the poppy and his decision making is severely affected. But Satin doesn’t mean him any harm, and a bath will be good for him. 

Theon stares at Satin, his expression blank. Satin wonders if he’s going to be sick. Merry had the same vague look on her face every time she drank too much strongwine and was about to throw up. They spend a few moments in silence. Theon doesn’t puke. 

Satin tries again. “I’ll prepare the tub, it won’t take long. You take a bath, get dressed in some of my clothes. I can wash yours tomorrow. When we get back to the Wall, I’ll share everything I have with you. What do you think?” Satin reaches for Theon’s hair, pulling a lock away from his eyes. 

Theon doesn’t flinch. He leans into the touch. 

“I promise I won’t look,” he says, hoping Theon sees it as an apology for his previous indiscretion. 

Satin doesn’t think he’ll get an answer, but a hushed word escapes Theon’s lips. 

“All right.” 

Satin smiles and hurries, getting the tub ready while Theon takes off his clothes with slow movements. Luckily, his doublet has buttons instead of laces, because Satin doesn’t think his clumsy fingers would be able to deal with complicated knots right now. He pulls his shirt over his head and kicks his boots away. His socks are dotted with holes, and his feet look bony when he removes them. Some of his toes are missing. Their absence in itself doesn’t bother Satin. That someone tortured Theon to this point – aye, that gets Satin revolted. 

By the time the tub is full, Theon is standing in the middle of the room just in smallclothes. Satin makes a show of turning his back, wanting to make clear that he meant what he said, he isn’t going to look. The water’s splashing sound tells him Theon is inside the tub. Satins faces Theon again and, from that distance, he can see less than half of Theon’s body above water. 

Satin’s hand reaches for the door’s handle. “I’m going to give you some privacy,” he says. It’s not that late. Perhaps he can still wash Theon’s clothes today. 

“You can stay,” Theon says, surprising him. “You stayed for Jon.” 

Satin drops his hand, the door forgotten. He stares at Theon. “You want me to do it to you like I do it to Jon?” 

“Yes,” Theon says, “you take care of him.” 

Has anyone ever taken care of Theon? 

Satin crosses the room and kneels behind the tub. He does all he can not to look at the juncture of Theon’s legs. He promised not to look. When soap and a wet cloth touch Theon’s back, Satin’s movements are slow. Theon may have given him permission, but Satin is still afraid of scaring him. He works first on the nape of Theon’s neck and slides down his back, rubbing circles with his thumbs. Satin’s touches are soft when they need to be soft and hard when they need to be hard. He takes his time—there’s no reason to hurry. 

Theon’s eyes are closed. Satin thinks he’ll stay that way the entire bath, so when Theon speaks, Satin is almost startled. 

“He did it right.” 

It makes no sense to Satin. Who did what right? But Satin doesn’t think Theon will respond well to inquiries, so he just hums, trying to show he’s listening. 

Theon takes so long to talk again that Satin had started wondering if he’d even say another word. 

“Lord Ramsay, I mean.” Theon swallows before he resumes. “He took me out of my cell. I thought it was just another game. But he called someone, someone to do it right. I don’t know if he was a maester, I don’t think he was. He didn’t have the chains.” 

Satin can’t split his attention between scrubbing Theon and listening to him, so he puts the wet cloth down and stays beside the tub, looking at Theon. 

“That happened before... before I learned my name. When I still thought I was a Greyjoy.” 

Satin frowns. Theon is a Greyjoy, isn’t he? Satin talked to the washerwomen as they did their chores. Lady Asha was a Greyjoy from the Iron Islands and Theon was her brother, so he was a Greyjoy too, right? Does he mean he’s a bastard? 

“I come from Balon Greyjoy’s seed and his wife’s loins, but… I’m not a Greyjoy. I thought I was. I wanted to be.” He takes a deep breath. “Lord Ramsay showed me otherwise. Now I’m Theon, just Theon, but when I was with him... He turned me into his Reek. And I was his Reek for a long time.” 

Satin tries to keep his face under control, lest his expression betray the dismay he feels and make Theon fall silent again. 

“Lord Ramsay said—said Theon Greyjoy was a lecher, that he was always fucking serving girls, whores, and even the miller’s wife, and that was why it was so big.” Theon chokes on his words. 

“You don’t need to be ashamed. Not with me.” Satin doesn’t say it out of some kind of morbid curiosity. He just feels Theon needs to know he can trust him. 

Theon speaks again. “But I wasn’t Theon Greyjoy, so I didn’t need it to be that big. He said he’d give me a size that was fitting to who I was. And I was his Reek.” 

Tears start running down Theon’s cheeks. Satin’s own eyes sting and he doesn’t dare to blink. 

“They gave me milk of the poppy, so I wouldn’t fight it. The man cut me—there’s almost nothing left. He didn’t do anything to... to the rest. He just made it shorter. When I woke up, Lord Ramsay said I should be happy. It took a long time to heal, but it hurt less. It hurt a lot less, a lot less than the—than the fingers and the flaying, and I hate to think about it, but—but gods. I was thankful. I was thankful because it hurt less, because they took care of the wound, because they fed me while it healed.” 

He’s crying now, really crying. Satin knows he shouldn’t, he doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries again, but he pulls Theon in his direction and embraces him. To his great surprise, Theon throws skinny arms around him and buries his face in Satin’s chest, sobbing against his shirt. Satin doesn’t say anything, and just holds him there, tight, for as long as Theon needs him. 

Eventually, Theon’s breathing eases and his sobbing stops; he lets go of Satin. 

“Do you want to finish the bath?” Satin asks. 

Theon nods quickly, taking the cloth from Satin and rubbing it on those parts he isn’t ready to have touched yet. Satin helps him with his legs and after a moment they’re rinsing out the soap. 

Satin stands up and turns around when Theon steps out of the tub and wipes himself dry with a towel. Satin turns back only when he hears Theon getting dressed with the set of clean clothes he had left lying on the bed. 

After emptying the tub, he turns his attention back to Theon. 

“Do you want to get a haircut?” 

“A haircut?” Theon frowns. 

Satin shrugs. “Different teeth. Different clothes. Different life. Why not different hair?” 

Theon considers it for a moment. He nods. 

Satin grins, happy with each small victory, and fetches the sharp knife he uses to gut the animals he hunts. Theon has seen the knife several times now, but none of those times Satin intended to use it on him. So Satin holds the knife by its blade when he pulls it from his belt, showing Theon the handle, staring at Theon’s eyes all the time. He doesn’t want Theon to forget who is holding the knife. 

Theon seems calm enough when Satin stands behind his back, knife in hand.  With skilled fingers, he cuts tufts and tufts of hair, trying to imagine what Theon would have liked before all that. 

By the time he’s done, it’s a shame there isn’t a tray of polished silver or a looking glass that Theon could use to see himself. Looking at Theon now, wearing clean clothes, with white teeth shining every time he speaks, Satin realizes something that has been there all along—almost hidden because of all the harm done to him. Theon is a very handsome man.


	11. Jon VI/Theon VII

Jon returns to the Guest House long after nightfall. With Eastwatch-by-the-sea fallen, the Wall has lost its port. There is no trade with merchant sailors from White Harbor or Essos anymore. Everything the Night’s Watch purchases is delivered through the mainland now, with a great spike in prices, but money isn’t the only difficulty. Most trading caravans don’t travel all the way to the Wall. Fortunately, being at a war camp means there are countless blacksmiths, healers, and leatherworkers to negotiate with. Even the camp followers occasionally have interesting goods to sell. Everything Jon buys will have to be carried to the Wall using only the three horses he rode to Winterfell with, so finances aren’t his only limitation. Trading with herbalists proves to be the most troubling part of it. The Watch needs herbs that don’t grow at the Wall—not without greenhouses—mostly for healing and preventing sickness, but Jon knows almost nothing about herbs, so he stays out late, talking to the salesmen and trying to make good use of the Watch’s money, but he eventually gives up. Even if he chose the right herbs, judging by their names and what he’s heard from maesters and healers, they could still sell him a bag of weeds and Jon would none the wiser. 

He should try to bring Satin to deal with them tomorrow, he thinks as he crosses the yard back to the Guest House. The boy must know something about herbs and potions considering all Lady Melisandre taught him when Jon was wounded. 

His trail of thought gets interrupted when he opens the guest chamber’s door. It’s not what they’re doing that surprises him; it’s an ordinary scene considering how close Theon and Satin have been for the past week. They’re sitting side by side on the bed, Satin’s long bow across their laps and Theon is giving him tips on the best ways to handle a bow, the right kind of string and when it’s time to change it. 

It’s Theon that surprises him. 

Jon suspects he’d need at least half a year to fully regain his weight—even longer if he wanted his firm muscles back—but for the first time since they reunited, Theon’s clothes don’t look like an oversized bag around his body. His hair is cut, cropped short but not too short, and doesn’t look like an old man’s anymore—for once, its light color actually suits him, and if Jon had met Theon today, he’d never have guessed his hair was once dark. There’s something different about his face and when Theon talks to Satin, Jon realizes it’s his teeth, white and aligned. Even Theon’s mouth looks prettier, more pronounced. There’s something different in his posture as well. He looks relaxed, with his back leaning against the wall and his shoulder brushing Satin’s—a significant change from the stiffness he had about him all week. 

Jon’s arrival doesn’t make Theon stop talking. “You pull the string around the edge of the bow like this,” he says, holding the string with the hand missing a pinky, but Satin is no longer paying attention. He looks at Jon. Theon raises his head too. 

“Hey, Jon,” says Theon, something making his eyes look at once both clouded and clearer. 

“My lord,” Satin greets him as well. 

It’s odd hearing Satin address him so formally. He wishes Satin would follow Theon’s hint and call him by the name. Jon wants to hear his name in Satin’s mouth. When they’re alone, or with Theon, at least. 

“Theon. Satin,” he greets back and focuses again on Theon’s strange ways. 

No, not strange. He was strange before. Now he’s... Like he’s supposed to be. Something’s happened. 

“Is Theon all right?” he asks Satin, not feeling entirely comfortable asking Theon directly. 

Theon apparently thinks his lack of confidence is nonsense. “I had milk of the poppy,” he answers. 

Oh. So that thing in his eyes is intoxication. 

“Maester Pylos gave me new teeth.” 

For a moment, Jon thinks Theon will line them up for him to see, like they did when they were children and Maester Luwin checked their health every few months. Instead, Theon offers him a smile so sly Jon feels four-and-ten again. A shiver runs down his spine and he hopes no one notices his goose bumps. 

“He did excellent work,” Jon says. 

He sits on the opposite bed and takes off his boots. In an instant, Satin is beside him, helping him undress like he always does. Jon won’t take a bath this time. He just removes his heavier garments, staying in smallclothes, socks and long-sleeved undershirt. He lies down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He’s tired, but his mind is still too alert for him to sleep. 

“We leave tomorrow after lunch,” he tells them. If they have lunch before traveling, perhaps they can take a food parcel from Winterfell with them and avoid eating a stringy squirrel so soon. They’ll only find a body of water to fish on the second or third day on the road. 

Satin and Theon are already tucked in bed, Theon’s back pressed against Satin’s chest. Jon’s own bed feels awfully empty. He’s thinking of blowing out the candle when Theon speaks. 

“Does it feel odd being a guest here?” 

Jon looks over at Theon’s bed, but Theon’s eyes are closed. If he hadn’t just spoken, Jon would have assumed he was asleep. Satin is running his fingers through Theon’s hair, his caress absent-minded in the way only habits are. He considers not answering the question, but doesn’t see a reason not to. 

“Odd? No, but...” He stops, reorganizing his thoughts. “Sometimes, getting back from the camp, I start walking to the Great Keep, and then I realize I don’t have a chamber there anymore. My door isn’t next to yours and Robb’s anymore. It’s not being here that’s odd. It’s being here while _they_ aren’t—Robb, Arya, Bran, father, everyone in the household. Even Lady Stark.” He inhales deeply, letting the air out slowly. “You?” 

He wonders what memories are more vivid to Theon—living there as Ned’s ward, being friends with Robb, or living there as Ramsay Bolton’s prisoner. But Theon doesn’t answer. When Jon looks over at him, he’s fast asleep, drooling a little on his pillow. Satin is almost there as well. 

A question edges itself to the tip of Jon’s tongue. They’ve been sharing a bed and must be sore from sleeping together in a mattress. Even if he’s the Lord Commander, it isn’t fair that he has so much more space. They could push the beds together; Jon wouldn’t mind doing it if the three of them could have enough room. He imagines himself lying with them—Satin with his slender body behind him, and Jon behind Theon, nose buried in the back of his neck. 

The suggestion is simmering on the tip of his tongue, and he’s dying to say it, but his mouth remains shut. Warmth rises up in his face and he swallows on a dry mouth three times before putting out the candle. 

He doesn’t know what kind of courage it takes to share a bed with two men, but when the room goes dark, he feels a craven.

* * *

Theon’s head still feels heavy from drinking milk of the poppy the day before. Now that the numbness is gone, he feels discomfort in his gums—a type of pain he knows won’t last long, though. There isn’t much swelling, but when morning comes, Theon chews on ice just the same. Satin leaves with Jon shortly after breakfast to run some errand together and Theon feels abnormally alone being on his own in the little room. 

They haven’t eaten a single meal in the Great Hall, like proper guests used to do in Winterfell—a servant always brings them a tray when it’s time to eat. Theon assumes it has something to do with the Northern lords’ unappeased thirst for revenge, and he knows it’s less about shielding him than it’s about avoiding stirring their wrath, but it means little difference to Theon. He doesn’t feel cast out—not having Jon or Satin with him all the time. He feels safe. But now they’re gone for the morning and it dawns on Theon that _they_ didn’t need to hide in a guest chamber with him in the first place. They could have been eating in the Great Hall all along and enjoying the small pleasantries that being in an actual castle like Winterfell brings, but they chose to be with him instead. Realizing that makes him thankful, but also makes him see how much he misses them, how life without them—after only a week of being together—would feel like having the ground fall out from his feet. 

Jon and Satin come back an hour before lunch. Upon eating, Theon finds that, despite not being his, the teeth in his mouth are good enough for chewing. He eats carefully, fearing pain and worrying that his brand new teeth might shatter as soon as he takes the first bite of his rabbit leg, but everything goes well. It’s the first time he’s able to eat meat on his own and actually chew on it ever since Lord Ramsay smashed his smile with a hammer. It’s stupid to be so happy about something so small, but Theon can’t help it. Beside him, Satin looks pleased. 

Asha is the only one to see them leave. The hug she gives him as he stands by his garron at Winterfell’s North Gate is awkward, strange, but good. It’s depressing seeing his sister—ironborn fierce—imprisoned and subdued like this. But she has the freedom of the castle and as far as being a prisoner goes, Theon knows she could do a lot worse. This time, he hugs her back. 

The way back to the Wall feels a lot faster to Theon, even considering saddle sores and the general weariness that comes with horse riding. Perhaps it’s because on the way to Winterfell he was dreading his future. The sudden realization takes him aback: he doesn’t fear for his future anymore, at least not like he did before. It feels irresponsible letting his guard down, it feels like he’s losing his mind. But then a memory comes to him: being locked in a dungeon at the Dreadfort, a rat’s gut hanging from his beard because he was so hungry he’d eat about anything if it’d just make the hollow in his belly go away. Pain and despair compared to… To a hard life, but a fair life, with daily meals, a roof over his head, and soft words. It feels so obvious to him now he’s surprised he didn’t see it before. He had lost his mind then. Now he’s finding it again. 

They’re helping him find it. 

At night, Satin escorts him to the woods so Theon can make his water. When they go back, everything happens like it did on the way to Winterfell—they lie down together, Satin’s arms around him, and yet Theon can’t sleep. A breeze makes the flames of their campfire dance and Theon blinks, admiring it. And then he admires the two men with him. He can’t see Satin, but he can feel his warmth behind him, can smell his perfume. He hasn’t met anyone that smelled this good ever since going to war with Robb; it’s surprising that someone like Satin exists there, at the end of the world. All Theon can see of Jon is his face, with his black furs wrapped around his body. Theon doesn’t think he even had a beard the last time they saw each other, but now stubble covers his jaw. If he kissed Jon, would his stubble feel like Robb’s did? Better? 

In his mind, Theon sees Satin’s smooth body again, his soft skin and flat stomach dripping with water. He remembers Jon’s body as well, stronger than Satin’s, scars standing out against the paleness of his skin. He doesn’t have anywhere near as many scars as Theon. But Jon’s scars are there and they’re undeniable. Jon has a rudeness about him that’s absent in Satin. 

All his life, Theon has liked that rudeness typical of most men. He loves women, used to be crazy about them, but as he lived as Theon Greyjoy, something about rough male ways always attracted him. There was a disturbing sense of triumph about having another man’s flesh in his hand, about getting men aroused to the point they fell apart and touched him back, even if desiring women was their nature. It was a game to him, because Theon Greyjoy was an ironborn who enjoyed making strong men yield. 

Thinking of Jon’s naked body reminds him of that. 

He sees Satin in a different manner. Satin isn’t coarse, he’s delicate and pretty, and he stares at Theon like he could see into his soul. Theon feels bare whenever he’s with Satin. Perhaps it’s the fact Satin _knows._ They _talked_ about it. Theon had never talked about it with anyone—there hadn’t been anyone to talk to before Satin. 

Theon wonders if missing that part of his body makes Satin think of him as not a man. Lord Ramsay used to say he wasn’t a man. But Ramsay said lots of things that weren’t true—Theon knows now. Or that had been true, but about Reek. And Theon isn’t Reek anymore. And if Theon isn’t Reek, Satin definitely isn’t Ramsay, so mayhaps Satin does see him as a man after all. 

Lost in all those confusing thoughts, Theon realizes something else. The warmth in his lower belly and the tautness of the muscles in his groin don’t leave room for doubt—if Lord Ramsay hadn’t had him cut, he’d be hard now. Knowing that makes him disoriented, but it also fills him with wonder. It’s the first time he feels actual arousal ever since his operation. He doesn’t have length to get hard, but he has… desire. 

His wonder quickly turns into defeat. In another time, he could easily deal with that desire, take himself in his hand and stroke himself until he spilled. But now what can he do other than drown in frustration? 

He remembers Satin’s soft kiss on his neck two nights ago and his frustration and desire grow in equal measures. Jon snores softly from across the campfire, his mouth looking red and ripe. Theon can feel Satin’s steady breath against the nape of his neck; his whole body is shivering. 

Dismissing all thoughts, he props himself on an elbow, just enough to stare at Satin, his face now half illuminated by the flames. Theon kisses him on the cheek. 

Satin opens his eyes slowly, staring back at him. He wasn’t fully asleep after all. 

“You kissed me the other night,” Theon says. “Today is my turn.” 

Satin looks at him, unblinking. “Thank you,” he finally says. 

Before Theon falls asleep that night, his last thought is that he can handle frustration, if he gets a little bit of this every day.


	12. Jon VII/Satin VI

The sky is cloudy when Jon wakes up. Looking at the vast greyness, his first thought is a silent prayer that it doesn’t rain. It had been pouring on his first ranging beyond the Wall; he remembers quite well the rain and wind whipping across his face, turning the soil to mud and burying the riders and their horses in it every time they stopped for a meal or for a night of sleep. Sickness is also a fate he wishes to avoid. That poor girl who was forced to pretend she was Arya died over a cough while riding the same path they’re traveling now. Jon doesn’t fear for himself or for Satin—the Wall gets colder than the Kingsroad and they’re used to it by now. Theon is the one who makes his gut clench with apprehension. It’d be a cruel jape from the gods if he endured being Bolton’s prisoner just to die at the hands of winter—from frostbite or from a cold. 

There is a difference in Theon now, one that makes him hopeful. It isn’t just his appearance—the haircut, the new teeth or the clothes. It’s how he acts. Jon doesn’t see him lowering his eyes towards some vague point to the side, doesn’t see him shivering for no reason. It’s been a week since Theon came to the Wall. Jon wonders exactly what happened in seven days that was able to heal some of the damage Ramsay Bolton had done. Was it all Satin’s doing? 

During lunch, Satin doesn’t chop Theon’s meat anymore. Even with his missing fingers, Theon is able to hold the flask and drink without spilling water. Jon isn’t troubled to see Theon’s maimed hands. He’s no stranger to amputations—many of his black brothers have missing limbs. Qhorin Halfhand was an admired ranger and Donal Noye stood up to a giant—both of them had parts of their bodies amputated. Jon knows it’s far-fetched comparing those seasoned brothers to Theon, but he can’t help it. Besides troubling lust, what he feels for Theon is akin to admiration, not unlike what he felt for those men. Everything has happened to Theon, yet he does more than endure: he’s resilient. 

Theon may be missing three fingers, but he’s got beautiful hands.

When they camp for the night, Jon pretends he’s asleep as soon as he lies down. He wants to know if something changed between Theon and Satin while they were in Winterfell, or if their routine remains the same. As he suspected, they sneak into the forest before Jon can even fake a snore. He wonders if they’d answer him honestly if he asked them, wonders why he won’t simply get up and follow them. 

Then Jon remembers standing against Theon’s door all those years ago, trying to figure out who was there with him, whose body he was touching, whose lips he was kissing, and the dismay he felt upon seeing it was his own brother. Suddenly, he knows why he doesn’t follow them, why he doesn’t ask questions. 

Sometimes knowing is worse than guessing.

* * *

The breeches Satin gave Theon have hooks instead of buttons. 

Satin noticed Theon’s difficulty with them on the first night of their ride back to the Wall. Like they did on the way to Winterfell, Satin escorted him to the woods so he could make his water, but Theon was taking too long. Satin always kept him within eyesight—too far to make out details, but close enough to know he was safe. He saw Theon squatting and saw him standing up after a few moments, but Theon didn’t walk back to him, seeming rooted on the spot. 

Satin waited, and waited, but Theon didn’t walk back. He frowned, squinting his eyes in the darkness, but couldn’t see what the holdup was. He knew better than invading Theon’s privacy for no reason, but he was growing increasingly worried as the time slipped by. Finally, he took a hesitant step in Theon’s direction. Something might be wrong. Hearing no protest, he closed the distance between them. Theon was standing there, breeches in hand. Two out of five hooks were in place, but three were still open, so small Theon’s fingers had trouble getting ahold of them. He gave an exasperated sigh, seeming annoyed at his own ineptitude, but Satin just smiled, his worries soothed. He put his hands on Theon’s crotch, clasping the remaining hooks as fast as he could, trying not to abuse the trust Theon placed on him. But when he pulled back, something in Theon’s eyes could make him swear he wanted Satin to stay longer. 

Tonight, Satin nears him, standing so close he can feel Theon’s warm breath in the cold, dark night. Theon is a little taller than him, and Satin likes that. This time, his hands are a lot slower. He puts every hook on its threadbare holder with sure movements. Theon’s breathing is shallow and quiet next to him, but it doesn’t strike Satin as a bad thing. After closing the last hook, he places his hands on Theon’s hips and looks him in the eyes, waiting. 

Last night, Theon returned the kiss Satin had given him on their last night in Winterfell, when Theon was still under the after effects of the milk of the poppy. Satin didn’t even think Theon remembered that. Right now, if this was anyone else, Satin would have already slid his hands to the small of Theon’s back, pulled their hips together and closed the space between their mouths, but this is Theon, so he waits. 

Theon’s arms are slack beside his body when he leans into Satin. It’s a cautious but unwavering move. The kiss, when it happens, is to the right of Satin’s mouth—too far from his lips, but too close for Satin not to react. No one breaks the kiss; it just slides as Satin puts his lips on Theon’s. He doesn’t lick inside Theon’s mouth, doesn’t suck Theon’s lower lip between his teeth, doesn’t do any of the things he’d like to do, because he fears too eager a step could put everything at risk. 

Theon pulls back and Satin doesn’t chase him. He doesn’t need to, because Theon isn’t running away. He’s still there, he’s still close, and there is no awkwardness in the way he touches Satin’s elbow. Theon’s ungloved hand stays there for a moment before he gives Satin a soft tug, urging them to go back. Their kiss lasted only a moment, but Satin thinks of that brief contact all the way back to the camp. 

When they get there, Satin and Theon lie in their usual positions, Theon on his side, closer to the fire, and Satin behind him. He’s already closed his eyes, and is trying to calm himself to sleep when he hears movements around him and his eyes open suddenly. Jon is up and has just crossed the short distance between them. Satin feels his lord sitting behind him and tries to raise himself on an elbow, but Jon’s hand, covered in burn scars, touches him on the shoulder, making him lie down again. 

“If you’re doing this for warmth,” Jon says, voice low, warm breath against his neck, “then we’d better do it the three of us.” 

Satin’s heart hammers inside his chest. They’ve never slept together, never, not even after Jon was attacked and hung between life and death. Satin feels Jon covering his hand with his burned one, taking their joined hands to Theon’s waist, pulling the three of them tight together. Theon is fast asleep and doesn’t complain. 

 _What if we aren’t doing this for warmth? What then, my lord?_

Satin doesn’t ask, not yet. This is enough, for now.


	13. Theon VIII/Jon VIII

The trip back to the Wall goes more quickly than the journey to Winterfell. They’re now more used to spending days on their horses, so their ride starts hours before first light and continues long after dusk; their animals are strong and don’t tire easily. Their lunch breaks are shorter, too, now that Satin doesn’t need to cut Theon’s meat. There’s no swelling in Theon’s gums, but he chews on ice a few times during the trip just the same. It makes him feel as cold on the inside as he feels on the outside, but he won’t dare risking his new teeth. He does his best to follow Maester Pylos’ guidance, cleaning his mouth as best as he can after eating. He can’t remember exactly why he felt getting teeth was a bad idea in the first place. 

Theon feels good about going back to the Wall; a week ago, he didn’t think he’d survive the ride to Winterfell. Sleeping on straw in his cell in Hardwin Tower is a somber prospect, though. It’s a better fate than anything in his horizon ever since being made Lord Ramsay’s prisoner, but he’ll miss the sleeping furs—and Satin, he’ll miss sleeping with Satin more than anything. 

 _Not just Satin,_ his mind supplies. _I slept with Jon last night as well._  

It’s half true. Satin had lain between him and Jon, but one of the hands on Theon’s waist when he woke up was undeniably Jon’s, scarred and possessive. Theon realizes he’ll miss that as well, and almost wishes they’d take longer to reach the Wall. He wants to know if Jon would sleep with them again if they camped for the night one more time. If he did, Theon would want to be in the middle this time. If anything, he’d be the warmest of them. 

Fortunately—or unfortunately, Theon can’t decide—they reach the Wall a couple hours after sunset that day. Satin guides their mounts to the stables to be watered and fed and have their shoes changed. There’s still light in the common hall and Jon accompanies Theon there. A few brothers still linger at their seats after a meal, and there’s still food in some trays. Most tables are empty, but when they stop by the hall’s doors, Jon eyes the whole room before pointing to a particular table. 

“Go sit with them,” he says. 

Theon sees a small, skinny youth with huge ears sitting beside a man slightly older, tall, and strong with a thick neck. Theon looks back at Jon. In another time, he’d have been livid at Jon’s attempt to order him around, going as far as telling him where to sit. Right now, though, he’s sure Jon doesn’t have ill intent. Besides, Theon is just a recruit. Obedience won’t do him any harm. 

So he nods and makes his way to the table Jon indicated. 

“Hullo,” says the smaller of them when Theon sits down. “We heard your name is Theon. My name is Pyp.” 

“Actually, we heard you’re the turncloak,” says the one with a thick neck. It’s a straightforward comment, but there’s no meanness in him when he says it. 

“Don’t mind Grenn,” Pyp says. “He’s so thrilled to be back to Castle Black he just can’t shut his hole. Shadow Tower is as bleak as its name." 

“Bleaker,” Grenn says. 

“But you see, when we got here, I was the monkey and Grenn was the aurochs. One of ours friends was called the piggy. Name calling isn’t a good start. So we’re calling you Theon. Besides, you look like you’re Jon’s friend, and most brothers here know what it’s like trying to hurt someone under Jon’s wing.” 

They’re chatty men, but Theon doesn’t consider it a bad thing. They can make up for his lack of words. 

Pyp leans across the table, as if he’s going to tell Theon a secret. “Even if it does look strange that you’re friends. Some men of the Watch were saying something about you killing his brother.” 

Grenn cuts Pyp off. “Everybody knows the Freys killed the King in the North.” 

Pyp elbows Grenn. “Well, Jon didn’t have just one brother. Everybody knows _that._ ” 

“I didn’t kill any of his brothers,” Theon interrupts their arguing and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he’s surprised with himself. Until now, he has never admitted to it with so many words. Even after Rickon returned from Skagos, his and Bran’s escape exposed, Theon had never said it like that, especially not without being coerced. “I just said I did,” he finishes, getting a bowl of turnip soup. 

“That’s a pretty stupid thing to say,” Grenn says, but his voice doesn’t have that piercing judgment that everyone’s voice has when they address him. 

“Y-yes, it was,” Theon stutters, taking the bowl to his mouth. 

The two boys shrug and don’t insist on the matter. Theon doesn’t feel uncomfortable around them. He knows now why Jon had asked him to join them. After he’s done eating, Satin shows up at the hall. He nods, indicating Theon should follow him, and Theon obliges. They head to one of the buildings; it looks a lot more solid than Hardwin’s Tower. They climb several flights of stairs and then a spiraled, narrower one. When they stop in front of a large oak door, Theon suddenly knows where they are. These are Jon’s chambers. 

The fireplace’s warmth welcomes them when they enter the room. Jon has taken off his fur cloak and is sitting on a chair in front of his desk, fingers crossed in front of him. 

“Theon, I asked Satin to call you here because I’ve come to a decision concerning you.” 

Jon’s not the only one. Lately, everyone makes decisions concerning him except himself, though Theon doesn’t mind when Jon does it—his choices haven’t done Theon any harm. 

“There’s no point in having you train with the other recruits. I won’t have you working your hide off to the master of arms, just to have him tell me what you and I already know. You can’t handle a sword, you can’t shoot an arrow anymore, and you surely won’t be a builder.” Jon’s tone is matter-of-fact. “You’ll be a steward, but I won’t have you milking cows, tending to horses or butchering hens. Your skills are finer than that. You’ll be of better use here in my office, dealing with my papers and my letters. I meant what I said to Stannis. You know your letters and numbers quite well. You’ll be of great help.” 

Years ago, Theon would have hated the prospect of spending the rest of his days buried in piles of dusted parchments. An ironman isn’t cut out for that kind of labor. But now, after all the blood he’s seen, after all the screams he’s heard, he welcomes those calmer tasks. 

“You and Satin will share a room,” Jon says. “Soon we can make other sleeping arrangements, but now there’s only one mattress. It shouldn’t bother you, though. It didn’t bother you on the road, so I don’t see why it’d bother you here.” 

 _You lay with us, so if someone is bothered that Satin and I sleep together, it’s you_. 

A scratch on the door interrupts their conversation. Satin pulls the latch open and Jon’s direwolf walks into the room, pressing his nose on Jon’s knee. 

“Hey, Ghost,” Jon says, a happy smile on his face, as he throws his arms around the animal’s flanks, petting his fur. 

Seeing Ghost makes Theon think of Grey Wind. Robb’s wolf had been as big as Jon’s, with fur just as thick. The last time Theon saw Grey Wind was the night before he sailed to Pyke. Every time Theon and Robb were alone in a tent, Grey Wind guarded the entrance, and that night hadn’t been different. Theon remembers thinking, as he sucked a bruise on Robb’s collarbone, _Would either of us even hear it if Grey Wind tried to keep someone from coming in?_  

This time, there’s a different wolf guarding them, but there’s also an actual door, with latch and bar to keep it closed, and the tower’s walls are a lot thicker than a thin tent in the middle of a war encampment. But he isn’t doing anything that might make him fear being heard or interrupted. 

He wishes he were.

* * *

Theon falls asleep with his back against the stone wall and Satin’s body pressed against him, but he wakes up to an empty bed in the middle of the night. The loud noise of piss hitting a chamber pot startles him. Satin has his back toward the bed, standing in a corner of the room as he makes his water. Theon sits on the bed and watches Satin as he tucks himself inside again, rubbing a cloth wet with water from their basin on his hands. 

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Satin says, sitting next to Theon on the bed and pulling a lock of hair away from his forehead. 

Satin has just touched his cock with that same hand. Far from disgusting him, that thought arouses Theon. 

He watches Satin in the partial darkness, the flickering light of Jon’s hearth sweeping into their little room and casting shadows on his face. Staring at Satin’s mouth, he says, “You didn’t kiss me tonight.” 

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to.” 

Theon loves that Satin cares. And it’s nearly suffocating how much Theon wants it. It makes no sense—why encourage something that will bring nothing but frustration? 

“I wanted to.” Theon swallows. “I do want to.” 

Satin leans against him. Theon gasps when their lips touch, but it’s a stifled sound. Satin takes advantage of his parted lips, licking into his mouth. One of Satin’s arms goes around Theon’s shoulders while his other hand rests on Theon’s hip. They kiss, and Satin presses them snugly together. It feels natural, like their bodies are fitting pieces. 

Theon isn’t an inexperienced man. His mind floods with things he wants to do, ways he wants to touch Satin. He knows how he wants to stroke Satin’s hair, hold the nape of his neck, put his thigh between Satin’s legs. But Theon doesn’t know if this body can do the same things his old body did. He doesn’t know if his touches will bring Satin arousal or repulsion when he feels Theon’s maimed hands on his flesh. Satin sucks softly on Theon’s tongue and it’s the best thing he ever felt in so long, but he doesn’t know how to assure Satin that the lack of a hard cock against his hip doesn’t mean lack of interest. 

Satin moves slowly, reaching for Theon’s wrist. Theon goes rigid, momentarily uncomfortable. Satin parts their lips just enough to say, “This is good, Theon. This is good.” He sounds a little out of breath. 

Theon loves hearing Satin like this, so he lets him guide his hand to the small of Satin’s back. They’re lying on their sides, with Satin bending his torso over Theon slightly, but it doesn’t feel enough anymore. Theon wants to feel Satin on top of him, covering him with his light weight. He’s never felt this submissive with anyone he voluntarily shared his bed before; this submission isn’t something he’s coerced into—it feels instinctive. Satin’s skin under his palm is soft and warm. 

He is wondering how Satin’s neck tastes like, and if this is a good moment to try it, when something beside him draws his attention. Satin pulls back, and Theon sees a pair or bright rubies watching them in the half darkness. Ghost is there, observing them, as silent as his namesake. He doesn’t blink. Theon feels self-conscious and strange. Satins looks like he’s uncomfortable as well, because he pulls back entirely, lying on the bed, the moment between them cut off. 

“Ghost?” Satin tries. “Are you all right?” 

But the direwolf turns back around and returns to his rug by Jon’s bed. Jon is sound asleep. Ghost circles around his own body twice before lying on his paws, falling asleep again. 

Theon’s body aches, but whatever he and Satin were going to do in case Ghost hadn’t interrupted them, isn’t happening anymore.

* * *

Jon feels something shifting, changing. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but even before he does, he already knows he’s Jon Snow again and this is not a wolf’s dream. But what just happened wasn’t a wolf’s dream either; it didn’t have the blurry edges of a dream. It feels like a memory. What just happened was real, very real. He just didn’t see it through his own eyes. Sharing Ghost’s sight shouldn’t feel like a novelty—the first time it happened, he was beyond the Wall with his black brothers, and a wildling skinchanging into an eagle attacked Ghost. 

The wolf’s dreams almost always involve emotions that are strong to the direwolf—Jon used to see Ghost hunt for prey, chase interesting smells, and sometimes he even sensed his litter-mates. In the wolf dreams, Jon’s perception of the world is different: he can see, but sight is a secondary sense, his wet nose telling him what he needs to know. Tonight, through Ghost’s eyes, he saw Theon and Satin’s kisses, their touches, but it was more than that. Ghost smelled their lust. It was unmistakable how much they wanted each other. 

Jon woke up in his own body as soon as Ghost fell asleep, but he still hasn’t opened his eyes. He keeps them shut, but he’s frowning. The fire on the hearth makes the back of his eyelids look reddish in their darkness. Jon tries to quench the possessiveness that threatens to take over him. It isn’t an unknown feeling, and it’s never done him any good. 

In their youth, Jon had no reason to care about the number of women Theon bedded—but he cared anyway. Mayhaps he did have a reason to care when it had been Robb in Theon’s arms. Robb was his brother, after all. Back then, he couldn’t escape the questions. _Why Robb and not me? Why not Robb_ and _me?_ But Satin—Satin is his steward. Jon protects him. Jon used to be the focus of Satin’s attention. 

None of this is fair. Jon has waited so long; first, Theon chose Robb instead of him, and now he’s choosing Satin, but Satin is _Jon’s_. Jon feels childish for what he just thought, but he’s waited his turn and it isn’t fair. Something flares inside him, and he can’t even tell who he’s mad at, Satin or Theon, or who he feels robbed of, Satin or Theon. 

 _They don’t have the right,_ he thinks. If anyone asked him right then, _Right to do what?_ , Jon would have said, _To do it without me._


	14. Jon IX/Theon IX

They wake up before dawn. No one says a word. Jon glances sideways to Theon and Satin as he washes his face with water from the basin. There’s a silent complicity between the two of them, and Jon wonders if they’re impatiently waiting for him to leave, looking for a moment alone. Jon is the one who spent ten years of his life sleeping in a room across from Theon, and now these are _his_ chambers, this is _his_ Wall, Satin is _his_ steward. And yet Jon feels like he’s in the way, like he doesn’t fit.

But in the end, it makes sense that Theon goes after Satin. Jon can’t imagine growing up in a brothel had been an easy life for Satin—something must have gone wrong if he ended up in a dungeon, and then at the Wall—but there’s something intimidating about Satin and what he used to do to for a living. He must’ve been with so many people that he most likely knows everything there is to know about the things men do together. Unlike Jon, who has only touched one person—a woman—who has killed wights, but still goes red hearing anything indecent. Ygritte used to tell him he knew nothing, and she was right in that regard. He knows nothing. It’s obvious why Theon and Satin would rather be with one another—they both know so much.

_But I could learn. Ygritte taught me some things, so why can’t they?_

Jon sighs, feeling bad that he’s busying his mind with such thoughts while he should be focusing on strengthening the Wall against their enemy in the north.

Satin excuses himself and leaves the room carrying used sheets and dirty clothes, on his way to wash them. It’s part of his routine as Jon’s steward. It’s also the most ridiculous thought Jon ever had, but he likes to know all the smallclothes he wears have Satin’s touch on them.

Now alone with Theon, Jon remembers what he saw last night through Ghost’s eyes—Satin and Theon in bed together, sharing starved kisses. And then Jon can’t stop thinking of the time they lived together in Winterfell. Of all the times Theon bragged about getting someone into his bed, he had never said anything about a man. Right now, Jon would do anything to hear Theon tell him everything in detail—all the things he did and would do to Satin. _And even the things he did to Robb,_ Jon thinks with a shudder.

He guides Theon to his desk and instructs him to sit on his chair.

“These are all the reports I got from the kitchens since—” Jon interrupts himself. He never told Theon he had been stabbed. He doesn’t know if Satin did either. “These are the most recent reports,” he ends up saying. “You can see there how much food there is in storage, and how much we spend with every meal. But I don’t know if those numbers are true. In this report here,” he says, pointing at a specific number on a parchment, “it says we had over a hundred onions. And if we actually only spend eight onions a day making stew like the report says we do, then the onions should have lasted until next week, when it’s time for gathering, but they didn’t. I’ve been meaning to sit down and check all these reports, see what’s right and what isn’t, but I never had the time.”

Three-finger Hobb almost makes him miss Bowen Marsh—backstabbing, defiance, betrayal and all. At least Marsh was competent in the supervision of his underlings. Jon can’t risk famine falling over the Wall because of poor administration of food reserves and bad reports.

“I can look for all the divergences between reports,” Theon says, “see how much food the Watch should have based on the original estimations and how far behind them we are, assess how much food the brothers are actually eating. That way, I can plan a more accurate, efficient food rationing. The main problem will be finding out where the food that is unaccounted for is going. Is it rotting? Is it going to waste?”

“I’ll look into that,” Jon promises.

He can’t help but smile, relieved. He’d waited for someone like Theon for a long time, especially after Sam parted on his journey to the Citadel. Jon misses Sam, but he feels Theon is more suited to the task than his old friend. Sam used to wonder a lot and get lost among the papers—it was hard getting him out of Maester Aemon’s library. Theon sounds like he’s able to look at problems from a distance.

Jon’s heart feels lighter when he leaves Theon alone in his quarters. He may be having all sorts of inappropriate thoughts, feeling left out in his own life, but at least it isn’t at the Wall’s expense.

* * *

It’s been an hour since Jon left, and Theon is finding it hard to hold the feather with his missing fingers and his mind feels rusty after so many years without doing any sums, but it gets slowly easier until he’s able to even enjoy it. If this is what he’ll do for the rest of his days, it won’t be that bad a life. 

But now, after an hour of this, his hand is cramping and his head hurts a little, so he rests his feather as sits back against the chair. His thoughts immediately go back to Satin and what they did last night. Not that he ever stopped thinking about it. From the moment he got up from bed today, that was the only thought in his head—it was pushed to the back of his mind while he focused on the reports, but he never quite stopped thinking about it. 

Theon closes his eyes and tries to remember the feel of Satin’s mouth against his lips, the smoothness of his skin. The sensations Theon felt floor him even now. He can’t believe how everything felt so similar to what it did before—before Ramsay cut him. Every single one of Satin’s touches made him want another, a strong, basic need. But at the same time, things have never been more different. Theon doesn’t know what to do with himself, how to handle that need, how to sate it. It looks like a tasteless jape from nature, drowning him in lust when there’s nothing he can do about it. 

Absent-mindedly, Theon pulls his tunic from his breeches, and slides his hand underneath it, touching his own stomach, feeling the ribs under his fingertips. His palm feels a little sticky; it always gets sweaty when he writes. He eyes the door, feeling suspicious. It’s closed, but not barred or locked. He decides to ignore it. It’s not like someone can catch him doing anything—he’s missing the essential part of his body to actually do something. Still, he continues exploring himself. His thumb finds a nipple, and it goes hard when Theon sweeps his finger across it. His other nipple reacts the same way when he touches it. 

He scratches himself gently, over scars and soft skin, enjoying the shudders it gives him. When his hands, both of them now, slide back down, making their way over his stomach to his lower belly, Theon has that feeling again—that he’d be hard if he still had a cock. He dares not open his breeches completely open out of fear of not being able to close them on his own, but he undoes the first two hooks and slides a hand inside his smallclothes, cupping his balls. The other hand rubs the muscles in his thighs. He hesitates to touch the stump of his manhood. Theon almost never touches himself there. Nothing good can come it. He freezes for a moment. 

 _But nothing bad can come either._

The thumb of the hand stuck inside his clothes touches his stump slowly. The stump isn’t smooth. He still has mayhaps half an inch of length, like a grotesque sign that he used to have something there. Shame threatens to choke him, but he’s alone, so he keeps touching. He feels the scarring and the small hole in the middle, from where he pisses; it doesn’t hurt. On the contrary, it even feels pleasant. But nothing remotely close to what it felt taking himself in hand and squeezing the head of his prick. He uses his free hand, the one resting on his legs, to scratch his thighs, from knees to the crotch just like he did it to his chest, and a stronger shudder runs through him, buttocks and lower belly twitching. 

He closes his eyes, trying to imagine it’s someone else’s hands touching him, but he has trouble doing so. Four fingers missing makes his own touch feel too distinct. He doesn’t think of Robb. It’d be easy, given how well he knew Robb’s touches, but at the same time thinking of him is just too hard. He thinks of Satin, instead, and it comes naturally to Theon—Satin kneeling between his legs, looking up, smiling. In his mind, Theon still has a cock, he’s still whole. He tries to remember what his prick looked like, but it’s hard to conjure up an image. Theon parts his lips and sighs, feeling his mouth dry. 

The image in his head unfolds. Satin pulls his foreskin back and covers the head of Theon’s cock with his mouth, swallowing him to the hilt. But when Satin pulls back, it’s Jon’s face Theon sees. He’s almost sure Jon has never done that in his life. The thought of being Jon’s first gets Theon biting his lower lip. Satin knows how it’s done, perhaps he could show Jon. If they kissed Theon after sucking his cock, would he be able taste himself on their tongues? 

In a heartbeat, Theon’s eyes snap open. In another moment, he’d have one leg thrown over the armchair, with his hand going up and down his cock. The need inside him does nothing but grow, but everything is different now. There’s nothing he can do to appease his lust.

 _So why do I tease myself with what I can’t have? Why torment myself like this?_

A moment later, when he focuses again on the parchments spread over the desk, his balls hurt and he thinks he might cry at the frustration.


	15. Jon X

It’s past noon when Jon goes back to see how Theon is doing. His brow is furrowed as he crosses the yard. Lady Melisandre just told him she’s leaving to Winterfell right away. Weeks ago, Jon would have felt relieved to see her go, but now, her sudden departure leaves him agitated, like a bad omen. She’s been a constant presence at the Wall for some time now and, whether he likes it or not, Lady Melisandre saved his life. 

“I thought your powers grew stronger at the Wall,” he asked. 

“And they do.” Her voice was like velvet. “That is why I need to leave. R’hllor sent me a vision. King Stannis needs to know what I saw in the fire, but I can’t trust a raven to carry those words.” She must have seen the consternation in his features. Her hand touched him on the cheek. “Don’t trouble yourself now. You’ll get your answers. Your importance will be great in the war to come.” 

Far from calming him down, her words worried him even further. But there is no way of rushing this upcoming war, and he doesn’t want to either, so he tries to dismiss any thoughts on Lady Melisandre’s leaving and busy his mind with what he can deal with now. Theon and the reports from the kitchens are one of those things. 

When he pushes the heavy door of his private chambers open, Theon raises his eyes from the big pile of parchments on the desk. Jon likes to see how focused he has been. 

“How are things going?” he asks, going around the desk, so he can look over Theon’s shoulder and see what he’s been working on. 

“Well, I think,” Theon says with a tired sigh. “Some reports are hard to read, but I’m making sense of most of them. The grain situation looks good, but losing a single bag to mold would affect all the estimations.” Theon takes another parchment from the pile. “I made a chart with how many vegetables the brothers ate in the last ten moon turns, and even taking the wildlings in account, there was a sudden growth in that number here,” he says, pointing at the chart. 

Jon knows when that happened. “That’s because of the giant, Wun Wun. Vegetables are the only thing he eats, but he eats it a lot.” 

Theon glares at him. “Giant?” 

Jon smiles at his surprise. “Makes you think of Old Nan, doesn’t it?” 

But Theon doesn’t answer. Just now Jon realizes how close he had been standing to Theon, leaning on him to see the reports he was showing. They’re so close Jon can see the wrinkled pinkness of Theon’s lips, the lump in his throat moving up and down as he swallows. They haven’t been this close to each other ever since Theon’s first day at Castle Black, when Jon pushed him against a wall. This time, he stares back at Jon, unblinking, and Jon thinks he could lose himself in his stare. 

When Theon wets his lips with his tongue, Jon closes the distance between them and kisses him. Theon doesn’t fight him; all Jon hears is a stifled moan against his mouth. The kiss is harsher than Jon intended, but he can’t help himself. He’s wanted this for so long he’s going to take whatever he can get—before Theon pushes him back and mocks him for thinking that one day Theon could want him like he wanted Robb, like he wanted Satin. 

Jon holds Theon by the doublet, crushing him with his mouth. Jon hasn’t kissed anyone since Ygritte, and he’s sure Satin’s kisses were more arousing than his, but this hard, blunt way is all that his fear allows him to give now. Jon manically hopes his tongue inside Theon’s mouth will silence the rejection he knows he’s bound to get. 

At last, he feels Theon touching his arm. It’s a soft touch, but its weight tells Jon everything he needs to know. Theon doesn’t even need words to reject him, after all. Jon pulls back, his face on fire, his heart beating so fast it feels like it’s breaking his ribs. 

“I...” Theon starts, but he stutters and has to start over. “I can’t give you what you want.” 

A thousand thoughts run through Jon’s mind—some of them challenging, like _How would you know what I want?,_ others scornful, like _But you give Satin what_ he _wants,_ and he doesn’t know which of those thoughts brings him greater shame. His throat is tight and uncomfortable. He wishes for an answer, one that erases what he’s just done, one that makes everything right, but he has none. 

He turns back around and leaves the room, mortified.

* * *

Coming back to his chambers at night is like marching to the block. Jon hates the idea of having to look at Theon’s face again so soon, especially knowing he’ll fall asleep next to Satin again, that they’ll kiss in the middle of the night, rubbing their bodies together and gods know what else. But when he gets into his quarters, Theon is nowhere to be seen. 

But Satin is. Jon’s sheets are clean and the wooden tub is full. 

“Theon is already asleep, my lord. I’m afraid he drank too much at dinner,” Satin explains. “He had a taste of the wildlings’ spirits. It was too strong to him. I’ve never seen a man get drunk so fast. He passed out as soon as he got here.” Satin sounds half amused, half concerned. “I prepared a bath. I hope my lord doesn’t mind.” 

Jon feels so beat down that a bath is at the same time what he wants the most and what he doesn’t want at all. The warm water will help him relax, and, after days on the road, the inner side of his elbows is getting grimy. But the last thing he needs is another rejection, having Satin’s hands on his body, touching him in places so private, just to know that Satin would rather be with Theon. But Jon isn’t going to waste the water Satin took so long heating up and carrying in buckets, so he sheds his clothes swiftly, leaving them in a pile on the floor. 

Satin uses the soap and wet cloth on him, rubbing them on his body thoroughly. As always, Satin washes his arms, chest, and armpits first, then his stomach. Satin’s hand is under water, the sleeve of his shirt pulled up to his elbow to keep it dry; his fingers rest on Jon’s lower belly, right where his body hair starts to grow thicker. He doesn’t ask anything, but his hand stops there. Jon stares at him. Satin has never looked so pretty, with expectation shimmering in his brown eyes. Jon grabs Satin’s wrist, and guides the boy’s hand to his cock. 

Satin touches him like he did in Winterfell—pulls his foreskin back and slides a finger around and under the head, cleaning him. But when Satin tries to remove his hand, Jon keeps it there. If refusal is all there is left for him, he’d rather have it sooner than later. He can’t stand the tension of not knowing anymore. If he’s going to burn that bridge, let it be now. 

Tentatively, Satin squeezes him from root to tip, pulling back again. Jon feels his cock swelling fast. Satin only needs to repeat the motion a couple times before Jon is completely hard in his palm. Jon opens his legs as wide as the tub allows him, resting his head on the rim. His eyes are closed, and his lips are parted, but no sound comes out of them. Satin moves his hand so fast the water gets agitated. Jon notices, with a bit of embarrassment, that he’s pushing into Satin’s hand. 

Jon is dying to know if Satin is hard as well, but he dares not open his eyes. This feels too good to be interrupted by deliberate words or actions. He wonders what Theon would say if he found them now. Would he be jealous? Of whom? Would he still feel that he can’t give what Jon wants? 

In his mind, he sees the scene he watched through Ghost’s eyes—Theon and Satin kissing. But something is different in his thoughts. Jon is with them, paying close attention to their lips, hands on the napes of their necks, their hair entwined in his fingers. Aye, they’re kissing, but only because Jon wants them to; they touch each other’s bodies because Jon wills it that way. In his mind, they’re all in this together—Jon gets his fair share of tongue-filled kisses as well. He kisses Theon while Satin bites his neck, and their hands assault his body. 

But that’s only in his thoughts. In reality, his toes curl, his buttocks clench tight, and he spills under the water, gasping as Satin squeezes him, milking his seed. When he finally opens his eyes, he sees Satin drying his hand on a towel, and for whatever reason, that sight makes redness tint Jon’s cheeks. Satin still hasn’t scrubbed his legs, but he can’t be in the tub for a moment longer. 

Jon steps out of it, taking his own towel from over a chair, wiping himself dry as fast as he can. He doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know what to say or how he should react. He didn’t know those things with Ygritte either, but she filled all the blanks of his hesitation. Satin doesn’t. He just looks at Jon, like he’s waiting for him to say something. 

“Are you going back to Theon now?” Jon finally asks, part for lack of anything else to say, part because he truly wants to know. 

“Yes,” Satin answers, and adds quickly, “of course.” He lowers his eyes and picks up the wet cloth and soap he used to scrub Jon’s upper body. “I’ll empty the tub on the morrow, my lord.” After that, he leaves the chamber in haste, escaping to the tiny room he shares with Theon. 

Jon feels isolated.


	16. Satin VII/Jon XI

_Are you going back to Theon now?_

Jon’s words keep coming back to Satin’s head nonstop and he can’t sleep. There had been something in Jon’s tone that disconcerted Satin deeply. It sounded demanding, but not only that—a little unsure as well. Satin doesn’t know what to make of it. Half of Jon’s question sounded genuine, and the other half sounded like the kind people ask just to confirm what they already think they know.

Another reason for Satin’s lack of sleep is that he can’t stop thinking of what he just did to Jon. Satin doesn’t know why it happened, why now and not before or later, but those questions don’t really matter. His mind is too busy with memories of how thick Jon had felt in his hand, Satin’s fingers barely closing around Jon’s girth. He’s seen longer cocks—his own included—but he’s seen less than a handful that thick. It’s mouthwatering.

Satin wishes he’d had the sense of spirit to ask Jon to step out of the tub, so when Jon came, he could actually feel Jon’s release coating the skin of his palms. But that isn’t how things would have happened. If Jon had stepped out of the tub, Satin wouldn’t have just touched him. Satin wouldn’t have held himself back, he’d have made sure that he got Jon in his mouth. He would want to feel Jon’s cock stretching his lips, seed filling his mouth. He’d want to get a proper taste before swallowing it and licking Jon clean. He’d make sure he gave Jon the best sucking he ever head, just to make him go crazy wondering why in seven hells they had never done this before.

He hears Theon grunting beside him and just then Satin notices how he’s passed the last moments tossing and turning on his side of the small bed. His eyes are used to the shadow, so he’s able to see Theon opening his eyes, blinking a few times.

“I’m sorry,” Satin says, “did I wake you?”

Theon takes a moment to answer. “No, it’s fine.” He yawns. “I sleep when I drink too much. But then I wake up in the middle of the night.”

Satin doesn’t know how to answer. It’s hard to focus when he’s half hard and there is nothing but fucking going on in his mind.

Ghost isn’t sleeping by Jon’s bed tonight. The direwolf goes hunting a lot more frequently now. Satin can tell Jon misses Ghost when he’s away. If Satin kissed Theon now, Ghost wouldn’t interrupt them. Theon has sobered up, but Satin isn’t sure if touching him now is a good idea. He may still be feeling ill from his previous drinking. Satin doesn’t even know why Theon drank so much in the first place. It almost looked like he did it with the intent of getting drunk, but Satin isn’t one to point fingers—gods know he enjoyed sharing a bottle of wine with Merry and the other girls. But Theon’s drinking hadn’t seemed festive; it had seemed angry and sad. Leathers, wildling turned black cloak, kept laughing and filling his cup. By the time Satin helped him upstairs, Theon’s breath smelled so strongly of wildling stout that Satin could have gotten drunk himself just by standing so near.

“Does your head hurt?” Satin asks.

“Not yet,” Theon says, “but it will.”

They’re lying on their sides, facing each other. Theon looks like he’s studying Satin’s face as he plays with the curled end of a lock of Satin’s hair. Satin slides his knee between Theon’s thighs; he should know better than this, but ever since the other night, sleeping with Theon is too great a temptation—how he opens up to Satin, so responsive and sensitive. Satin wishes he had better control over his body as his cock goes fully hard when he remembers how Theon gasped when they kissed the night before. Pulling their bodies together and pressing his hardness on Theon’s hipbone is the exact opposite of what he should be doing.

“Do you feel what you do to me?” Satin whispers against his mouth.

Theon reaches between them, his hand going inside Satin’s smallclothes, and squeezes him tightly. His grip feels different than everyone else’s—not because of his fingers, but because it feels better. The way Theon positions his wrist as he pumps Satin tells him it’s not the first time he’s done it—Theon knows what he’s doing. Satin kisses him, sucking on his lips, on his tongue, until it’s not Theon’s mouth he’s kissing anymore. As much as he loves kissing him, Satin also wants to hear Theon’s breathing change as he mouths his throat.

Satin can’t tell if Theon is touching him or if he’s rubbing himself on Theon’s hand; it feels a little rough at first, not having anything to slick the way, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. His cock leaks when he’s aroused.

“Gods, the things I could do to you…” Satin moans against Theon’s neck, right where he can feel the blood pulsing.

He slides one hand down Theon’s back, reaching for his buttocks, slowly enough for Theon to stop him if he wants to. Satin doesn’t do more than grab his arse as Theon jerks him off, but it feels incredible being able to touch more of him like this. Satin will take whatever he can get.

“I could make you come so good.” It’s against his ear Satin is whispering now. He knows Theon’s goose bumps aren’t from cold. “You’d just have to let me.”

Satin wants to tell him about it—all the places in Theon’s body where he wants to put his mouth, the things Satin could do with his fingers—but he can’t, not now, not when Theon is touching him like this, when he’s about to come. After spilling, he gets oversensitive, but keeps torturing himself a moment longer, rubbing his spent prick on Theon’s seed-covered hand.

Satin can still feel his groin twitching when he takes Theon by the wrist, licking his own release from Theon’s fingers. He’s being practical, really, trying not to stain their sheets, but the way Theon’s eyes go wide at him makes Satin wish there was more of Theon for him to lick clean. He looks hungry, and there’s nothing Satin would like better than sating his urges. His hand rests on Theon’s hip as an invitation.

But Theon removes it, putting it over his own shoulder, pulling Satin into an embrace. He closes his eyes and keeps them closed. Satin knows he’s not asleep yet, but he’s trying to be. Satin doesn’t insist; he just curls against Theon’s chest and closes his eyes as well.

* * *

They didn’t even notice his presence. It isn’t a surprise. Theon didn’t notice his presence years ago when Jon heard him with Robb, so it’s only natural that he wouldn’t notice him now with Satin. Jon wonders if this is how it’s always going to be, with him on the outside, looking in. And this time, he actually got to look, not just hear. He saw their open-mouthed kisses, saw the way Satin rutted against Theon, heard Theon panting when Satin sucked on his neck—Jon’s own cock a big bulge in his breeches.

Jon doesn’t even have an excuse. He can’t delude himself that it was all an accident, that he had an actual, decent purpose when he made his way to Satin’s and Theon’s room as quietly as he could. Spying on them was deliberate. He was sleepless all night, and when he heard their hushed voices in the adjoined room, the decision was easy to make. Seeing it felt like being cheated, but betrayal had never made him that hard before. He had to bite his tongue to keep from making a sound when Satin licked Theon’s palm clean. It was the filthiest thing he had ever seen, but as soon as it was over, Jon was already dying to see it happen again.

As he watched, part of his mind kept yelling at him to do something, to make it different than it had been with Theon and Robb all those years ago—he couldn’t stand another lifetime of wondering _what if_ —but he was also dying to see how far they would go without interruptions, what they would do, if Theon would beg to be fucked like the whores in his stories did or if Satin would rather have him inside.

When morning comes and Satin brings him his breakfast, Jon hates the blush that covers his face. He doesn’t trust his voice not to stutter, so he keeps to himself as three of them eat their meals. He leaves for the yard after that. Leathers is the new master at arms, not him, and Jon knows his time would be better spent commanding the Wall like it’s his responsibility, but he needs the simultaneous strain and relaxation a few hours in the yard bring. Besides, the recruits are terrified of Leathers; Jon’s presence calms them down somewhat. During training, he teaches Jon the Old Tongue’s words for parry, shield, pierce, block, thrust, sword and dodge.

When Jon climbs the stairs in King’s Tower that afternoon, his face is red from exhaustion, not shame, and that’s a welcome change.

Theon looks excited to see him when Jon walks into their chambers.

“I found something,” he says, urging Jon to stand beside him. His eyes are gleaming.

“What?” Jon asks, walking around the desk.

“Someone is stealing from the pantry. And I know how.” Theon seems so pleased with himself he almost looks smug.

The last time he saw Theon like that, Jon was three-and-ten and had just witnessed him landing an entire quiver of arrows on a training dummy’s head.

“Going through the chief cook’s reports, I noticed that the items that go missing are always jerked beef, smoked ham, and goat cheese, the most coveted food. Mice, mayhaps? Could be, but that doesn’t make sense, because the amount that goes missing is always the same. And it always disappears the day when the fortnight’s harvest gets stocked. When the vegetables go into the pantry, that’s when the meat and cheese go missing.”

Gods be damned. It’s been right in front of him all along, but Jon has been too busy to see it. “Cugen,” he says. “Cugen is the one in charge of stocking the crop.” He gives an angry sigh. “I’m going to have him emptying privies.”

“Just don’t tell him I’m the one who figured it out. I don’t want to look over my shoulder more than I already have to,” Theon says offhandedly, like it’s nothing, his attention going back to the papers.

Jon pulls the chair by the back rest, its weight scraping the floor. Theon’s startled eyes stare back at him.

“I would never let him hurt you,” Jon blurts out the words as anger and protectiveness fuel him. “And if he did, I wouldn’t bring him to the block. I’d feed him to the fire myself.”

He’s towering over Theon exactly like he did the day before, when Theon rejected him like Jon knew he would. Theon shifts uncomfortably in his seat under Jon’s shadow.

“I told you I can’t give—” Theon begins, but Jon doesn’t let him finish.

“I wasn’t going to kiss you. I know I was never good enough for you. I’m not highborn like Robb was, for starters.”

Theon’s jaw drops. “How do you—”

“You weren’t always careful with barring the doors,” Jon admits, blushing a little. “It was almost like you were trying to be caught.” Now that he started talking, it’s like he just broke a dam—his words flow in a forceful torrent. “Gods, that talk about teaching him how to hold a bow? Robb had to be greener than I thought to fall for that. And you called it a favor, said that touching him was just men helping each other out. Did you always do favors like that, or Robb was just lucky?”

The words are barely out of his mouth when Theon rises from his seat, slamming Jon against the nearest wall. It isn’t the strength in Theon that pins Jon to the wall, it’s shock—Theon’s face is an exact copy of the conceited, ironborn expression he used to carry around Winterfell. Jon feels his cock swelling despite himself, and wonders if this is how Robb felt all those years ago, when Theon first had him.

“Is that what you used to do? Hide behind doors watching me with my hand inside your brother’s breeches?”

Jon swallows dry. “It was just once,” he admits in a low voice. “And I didn’t see it, I just heard it.”

“But did you wish you could see it? Did you stand by the door, hearing us, and wishing it was you there with me instead of Robb?” Theon asks him, eyes piercing.

Jon can’t lie. “Gods, yes,” he gasps.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I wanted it to be me.”

“Did you touch yourself thinking of that?” A bony hand travels up Jon’s inner thigh.

“I did,” Jon says.

“How many times?”

“Does it even matter?” Jon asks, blinking in confusion.

“I wouldn’t ask you if it didn’t,” Theon says, his tone serious.

His hand on Jon’s thigh isn’t moving, and Jon desperately wants it to move, so he answers. “Too many to count.”

He gets his reward, but Theon doesn’t move his hand nearly as much as Jon would want him to; it now rests very close to the juncture of his legs, but it’s still more thigh than crotch.

“When was the last time?”

Theon pressures him with another question, this answer harder to admit than the others. He could blame his behavior in Winterfell on being a green boy, but answering this question means that this is truly who Jon is, that he actually wants Theon, has wanted him for as long as he can remember and will most like only want him more and more.

But he does answer. “Last night,” he admits. “I thought of you, of your—“ Theon rewards by palming down the hard swell in his breeches, urging him to keep talking. “—ah, your hands.”

“My hands?” Theon’s hand freezes as he pulls back an inch, eyeing Jon with suspicion.

“Aye. I like your hands. I thought of them… covered in your seed.” Jon’s face is burning so hot when he utters the words he thinks he might die from the shame, but he goes on. “You touched my lips with them. Made me lick them clean, your palms, and the scars on your hands, too.” He puts his own palm over Theon’s, urging him to do something. “Go on, please. Do it.”

Theon squeezes him softly through the fabric of his clothes, but doesn’t rub him like Jon wants—needs—him to. “You touch yourself thinking of how I look now? Not like before?”

Jon feels like squirming under Theon’s touch. The anticipation is just too great. “Fuck—yes. Ever since the first day, when we rode to Winterfell.” He waits a moment longer, but Theon still isn’t moving. “I answered all your questions, will you please do it now?” He hates himself for begging, but he can’t help himself.

And finally Theon moves. But in the opposite direction. The crease on his forehead is more pronounced as he takes one step back, and then two. The bulge on Jon’s breeches is so obvious as to be ridiculous. Then Theon turns on his heels, fleeing the room.

Reality takes a moment to sink in. When it does, Jon feels exposed, humiliated, like he’s a child, not at all like he’s the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.


	17. Theon X

It’s midday and Theon is having lunch at the hall with Pyp and Grenn. Halder has joined them and Pyp is having a great time telling him what seems to be a hilarious story about an accident Grenn had with an anvil at Shadow Tower. Theon eats because he’s learned never to dismiss an opportunity to fill his stomach, but his stomach is burning with anxiety and he can barely keep food down.

Less than an hour ago, he had his hand on Jon Snow’s cock. Jon Snow, with whom he used to quarrel over taking turns sparring at the yard, how much game each of them had taken down on a hunt, Robb’s attention—anything and everything. Jon Snow, a leader to black cloaks, wildings, and even a giant—Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, still not quite nine-and-ten when he looked King Stannis Baratheon in the eye and stood up to him. Theon had that same Jon Snow panting and begging for him, like he was desperate, like Theon was everything he could ever want.

And Jon had wanted him for a long time, hadn’t he? At least that was what he said back there in his quarters—that he wanted Theon since he was a boy, watching him with Robb behind a door. But it was easy to want him then, natural even. Theon Greyjoy had an athletic body—a _whole_ body—a drawling purring voice, great skill with a bow, ironborn blood in his veins. But Jon Snow wanting him now—especially when he knows what Theon used to look like—that’s what gets Theon feverish.

The muscles in his thighs feel tight over the wooden bench. He can’t stop thinking of Jon, of the bright redness that covered his cheeks and part of his neck as he asked please for more, of how he seemed incapable of closing his mouth. His reactions to the barest touch were so intense Theon might’ve thought Jon was a virgin if he hadn’t overheard black cloaks saying that of course Lord Commander Snow would make Leathers master at arms, considering he was half wildling himself after bedding that wildling woman.

Right then, holding Jon against a wall, Theon felt he might do anything Jon asked him to, if only it meant Jon would go on wanting him so desperately.

And that knowledge was precisely what made him flee. It was too much.

Back in Winterfell, when he still called himself a Greyjoy, there were a few times when he thought of wiping the arrogant expression off of Jon’s face, when he wondered if Jon would still look all high and mighty with seed all over his lips. A few times, after a heated sparring at the yard turned into an actual fight, all fists, kicks and punches, swords forgotten, to the point Ser Rodrik had to break them apart, Theon daydreamed of taking away Jon’s stuck-up attitude and putting him on his knees, begging.

But that was when he was a Greyjoy. Now he’s just Theon. A voice forced to the back of his mind tries to tell him he shouldn’t forget the things he’s been taught—Reek knew his place, knew where he belonged _—_ but then he catches himself staring at his hand holding the spoon. The sleeve of his black wool shirt is too long for his arm, going past his wrist and covering half of his hand. Black. His shirt is black, as is his undershirt, his doublet, and his boots. He’s a brother of the Night’s Watch now. Ramsay broke him, aye, but that was then. He’s someone different now. Someone Jon Snow wants. He’s missing fingers, he’s all bones, his hair has lost its raven color, and his eyes are sunken in his skull—and Jon Snow wants him, lusts for him, touches himself all alone thinking of licking seed off Theon’s maimed hands. It is overwhelming, incomprehensible. But it’s also so thrilling it makes Theon afraid to lose control.

He almost lost control with Satin—he looked so beautiful moaning and rubbing himself on Theon’s palm that Theon almost forgot to refuse when Satin tried to touch him back—and he definitely doesn’t want to lose control with Jon, doesn’t want to put himself in a vulnerable position, where lust might cloud his judgment enough to make him forget how repugnant his naked body would look to them. But at the same time, he’s not ready it give this up, whatever it is he has going on with them. It’s frustrating, and he may not be a whole man, but being with them, bringing them pleasure makes him feel like a man in _some_ way, it makes him feel better than anything else. It makes him feel excited, alive.

Mayhaps… Mayhaps he can keep doing this to Jon and to Satin, if he’s careful. Aye, he can be careful.

“Theon? Theon?”

Theon blinks several times and looks up. The three men at the table are staring at him with expectant looks on their faces.

“What?” he says.

“Are you all right? You’ve been staring at your plate forever now,” Pyp says.

“I—I’m fine,” he says, pulling one leg over the bench as he tries to stand up. His legs feel a little numb. “I’m sorry, I need to go now.”

He walks away, feet heavy as he exits the hall and crosses the yard. Leathers is teaching recruits to effectively use a scythe in a battle, but Jon isn’t among them. Theon climbs the stairs in the King’s Tower so fast he’s panting by the time he reaches the last step, but the Lord Commander’s quarters are empty. Satin is nowhere to be seen either.

Theon is almost giving up on finding him, when he opens the door to the rookery and finds Jon there, a folded parchment in his hand, about to open one of the raven’s cages. Jon’s brow furrows the moment he sees Theon, his lips pulled in an angry snarl.

“I get it,” Jon says, voice low and surprisingly steady. “You don’t want this, you don’t want me, you never did. You were just trying to humiliate me. And you did, I understand it.” He walks to where Theon is, showing him the door. “Now go. I don’t want you here.”

“No,” Theon says.

Jon closes his eyes for a moment, and Theon can see his jaw clenching down.

“I am Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the Wall is mine, you’re my steward, and I’m ordering you to leave now.”

“I can give you what you want,” Theon says, swallowing on a dry mouth, “because I want it too. As long as you don’t ask for more than I can give.”

“What?” Jon says, bewildered, still angry.

Theon doesn’t answer him, just holds him by the shoulders and tries to push him against the door like he pushed him against the wall in his chambers, but Jon resists him. “No, you’re not doing this again. Are you deaf? I told you to—”

Theon kisses him. There’s a muffled sound against his lips, but Theon doesn’t know what Jon is trying to say, and he doesn’t care. His tongue is already trying to lick its way into Jon’s mouth. There’s another muffled sound, but this time Theon thinks it’s just a moan. Theon buries one hand in Jon’s hair, wishing he had all his fingers, so he could pull harder on his curls. His other hand is busy grabbing a hold on Jon’s crotch—his cock is thickening fast despite his previous resistance. This time, when Theon tries to push him against the door, Jon lets him.

“Open these up,” Theon tells him. He won’t waste any time trying to unbutton Jon’s breeches on his own.

Jon looks at him with wide eyes and red lips, frozen for an instant, but obeys after that moment of hesitation, dropping the parchment he was holding on the floor.

Theon licks a stripe from the middle of Jon’s neck to behind his left ear. “Smallclothes, too,” he whispers.

Jon’s fingers are shaky when he does as he’s told. He looks at Theon like he’s waiting for him to change his mind. Theon locks eyes with Jon when he puts a hand inside Jon’s breeches, taking his cock out. There’s only one finger missing in the hand Theon is using to hold it, so his grasp is still somewhat firm. From the mesmerized look on Jon’s face, he seems to think there’s nothing wrong with it either.

Theon tries pumping him a couple times, exploring in tentative manner, trying to remember how to do this, wondering if what Robb used to like will work for Jon like it did for Satin. Jon is already shyly pushing into the movement. Theon wishes he could rub a finger over the wet head of Jon’s prick in time with his strokes, but he would need a thumb for that, and that’s exactly the finger he’s missing on that hand, so he has to settle for squeezing Jon tighter. Jon’s shy moan is so soft and pleading, Theon does the only thing that feels natural considering all the spittle pooling inside his mouth. He drops to his knees and swallows Jon down.

Jon’s gasp is so sudden and loud all the ravens start squawking at the same time. Theon is grateful for the birds’ noise, because he wants to hear Jon make a lot more sounds like that before this is over. He doesn’t think it will be hard; he only has half of Jon’s length inside his mouth, and Jon already looks like this is the best thing he’s ever felt. Theon bobs his head back and forth a few times, hollowing his cheeks, trying to get more of Jon’s strong taste. He pulls the foreskin back and swirls his tongue over the head, looking up at Jon, wanting to see his face. It turns out Jon doesn’t even need words to beg; his expression tells Theon how he’s desperate for everything Theon’s doing to him. He had forgotten how dominating one can feel while on their knees.

Theon tries taking all of Jon in his mouth, but he’s too thick, and tears start to pool in the corners of Theon’s eyes. Even that doesn’t feel bad, though. It hurts his jaw having his mouth open so wide as forces Jon’s cock down his throat, but it’s a good kind of pain. Jon’s creamy skin feels warm under Theon’s palms. His panting sounds hushed, like he’s doing his best to keep it down, and if that’s the case, Theon wants it to be the hardest thing Jon has ever done. He pulls back, sucking on the tip as one of his hand strokes the spit covered length. Jon grabs a fistful of Theon’s hair, and he can feel his own groin twitching at the burning sensation on his scalp.

All of Jon’s muscles are going taut under his touch, cock throbbing on Theon’s tongue. Jon looks so beautiful on the verge of coming with eyes so narrow, mouth open in a silent cry, that Theon feels tempted to ease his arousal back down, just so he can build it back up again to enjoy the view a little longer. Wielding the power to decide when Jon finds release gets Theon shaky with want.

But there’s no time to turn that idea into action. Jon is too responsive, too sensitive, and he’s squirting his seed deep into Theon’s mouth a moment later, throwing his head back at the door with a thump so loud it must have hurt, but Theon is certain the guttural moan he hears has nothing to do with that.

He has barely finished swallowing when Jon hoists him up, filling his mouth up with tongue the same way his cock did only a moment ago. It’s delicious. Until he feels Jon’s hand trying to worm its way between their bodies to touch his crotch. Theon takes a large step back.

“What?” Jon asks, clueless.

“Don’t,” Theon says, hoping it’s enough.

“Don’t what?” Jon presses further. It’s never enough.

“Just—” Theon wonders what he could say that would put matters to rest, but comes up with nothing. “Just don’t.”

At first, Jon looked relaxed and sated, smiling even, but his features are gradually taken by confusion. His spent prick is still hanging outside his breeches. Jon notices him staring and starts to tuck himself back inside, reticent all of a sudden. Theon hates that everything was fine a moment ago, and now isn’t. Why can’t Jon just keep his damned hands to himself?

“I need to go,” Theon excuses himself. “I’ll be in you quarters if you need me.”

Thankfully, Jon steps aside and doesn’t go after him.


	18. Satin VIII

The Wall is always in need of something, be it mending and washing clothes, gathering firewood, or hunting in the nearby woods. Satin is Jon’s personal steward, and he doesn’t need to worry about anything other than tending to the Lord Commander. Despite helping the other stewards whenever he can, sometimes all Satin wants is some free time for himself, so having fewer duties comes in handy. When the Wall’s needs aren’t urgent, and when he’s already done enough with his day not to feel guilty for being idle, he busies himself with personal things. On some occasions, he just takes a nap; on others, he tries to practice his handwriting. Sometimes he lies on his bed, letting his thoughts go wild, thinking back to his time at the brothel, his best clients, his dear friend Merry, or the first time he laid eyes on Jon. Sometimes he touches himself. 

Doing that was difficult when he was just another steward trying to make a life at the Wall. Privacy wasn’t a given, and most cells were just too cold for Satin to touch himself like he really enjoys—fondling his whole body, instead of just some quick pulls at his cock to get him squirting as fast as he can. When Jon became Lord Commander, though, Dolorous Edd was sent to Long Barrow, and Satin was named the Lord Commander’s personal steward, so he began doing it almost every day. Jon’s quarters in the King’s Tower are always warm, and other black brothers don’t go in there unless they’re given permission. The visual incentive is also too great to be ignored. As Jon’s personal steward, Satin is always around him, helping him with his attire and armor, helping him shower, helping him shave—he can smell Jon, occasionally touch his skin, and he just can’t help himself. 

Satin used to enjoy touching himself in the early evening, right when the sun was setting. It was too early for Jon to be back, but late enough that Satin had already finished all of his chores. So he took some time to lie down on the bed and let his hands wander, touch himself in all the places he’d like to touch Jon. A few times, when he felt brave enough, he even did it on Jon’s bed, burying his nose on the sheets, in Jon’s scent. 

If this was any other day—before Theon got to the Wall—that’s probably what Satin would do at this hour. But now, as he climbs the stairs in the King’s Tower, he doesn’t think of touching himself. He thinks of touching Theon. 

Satin left him alone all day, trying to give him some room. Theon shied away from Satin’s touch, and Satin respected it, but now all he can think of is kissing him, hoping that at some point Theon will trust him enough to allow himself to be touched. 

Theon isn’t at Jon’s desk anymore when Satin enters Jon’s quarters, closing the door behind him. He walks to their room, and Theon is lying on their tiny bed, arms folded under his head, staring at the ceiling. Satin smiles at the sight. 

“Scoot over,” he says, lying down next to Theon. 

His arms go around Theon’s body as soon as he lies on the bed, pulling him closer. He doesn’t think this is too much. At this point, Satin trusts Theon to speak up if he’s uncomfortable—and he doesn’t seem to be. 

Theon moves on the bed, adjusting their positions so they’re facing each other, lying on their sides. Satin kisses him. This time, it’s Theon who deepens the kiss, pushing himself into Satin’s space, claiming his mouth. But even so, Theon feels rigid; his touches are too strong, like there’s something troubling him. After a few moments, he breaks the kiss, panting against Satin’s cheek. Satin holds him there, waiting. 

Finally, Theon says, “Yesterday—” But he loses track of what he was going to say, swallows, and starts again. “Yesterday, when we were kissing, and I was touching you…” 

He stops again. It seems like he’s having trouble with the words; Satin almost kisses him on the cheek to urge him on, but doesn’t want to look condescending, so he just waits. Eventually, Theon continues. 

“Yesterday, you said you could make me—make me come. Said I only had to let you.” His voice is so low it’s barely coming out of his throat. “That was just talk, right? It was just one of those things we say in bed, that doesn’t really mean anything, right?” 

This time, Satin does kiss him before replying, “I meant it. I could make you come if you let me.” 

“But you mean before—” Theon’s eyes are wide. “Before all this, before he—before he cut me,” he says finally. “You can’t do it now, the way I am.” 

“Of course I can.” Satin smiles, hoping to reassure Theon. “I could make you come right now, if you let me touch you. Your body may be shaped different, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find release. You could come every day if you wanted to.” And lower, right against his ear, pressing his body against Theon: “And it’d so unbelievably good.” 

Theon’s skin is feverish when Satin places a kiss on his cheek. 

“How?” His voice is weak like he’s afraid of asking. 

“I think you know how,” Satin says, kissing his other cheek, and then his mouth. “I may have been a whore, but I didn’t get buggered just because I was being paid. I enjoyed it.” 

Theon goes rigid in his arms. Satin can tell that no matter how much experience Theon has with bedding men, he never played the receptive role. 

“You want to bugger me?” There is less shock in his voice than Satin would have expected. 

“I wouldn’t even need to use my cock,” Satin whispers again, holding Theon close, licking a long stripe along his throat, feeling the rapid pulse there. “I could use a finger, maybe two, and it’d make you come so hard. I know exactly where to touch you.” Theon’s body is still rigid, but he isn’t asking him to stop, so Satin keeps going. “There’s a special place inside of you, and if you touch it, if you stick your fingers in there and rub it the right way, you’ll come like you never have before.” Satin can feel his own cock beginning to stir at the words. “Sometimes, when I do it to myself, I come without even touching my cock, just with my fingers up there. That’s how much I like it.” 

“You’re mocking me,” Theon says, disbelief written all over his face. 

“I’m not,” Satin says, rubbing his now fully hard cock against Theon’s hipbone. “Once I was done with my fingers in you, you’d have your seed all over yourself. You’ve wanted to come for a long time now, haven’t you?” 

Theon is shaking. “Yes,” he says. “I’ve never done this before.” 

Satin already knows that. 

“And I had never shot an arrow until I shot one, and I now I’m great at using a longbow. I had never kissed you until I did,” he says, and then kisses Theon again, slow and sensual, “and now I wish I could kiss you every day, all day.” 

“Doesn’t it hurt?” The previous questions all sounded like denial. This one doesn’t. 

“It doesn’t have to, not if I’m careful.” One of Satin’s hand slides up and down Theon’s thigh. “And I would never hurt you on purpose.” 

Theon looks like he’s about to say something, but there’s no time to hear his response. Jon has just entered his quarters, barring the door behind him. 

“Satin,” he calls. 

Satin glances at the door dividing their room from Jon’s, before whispering to Theon, “I’m sorry. I need to go. But I’ll come back. All right?” 

Theon nods almost imperceptibly, pulling the covers up to his neck. 

Satin is still half hard when he goes to Jon. 

“Help me with my clothes,” Jon asks. His eyes look sunken and tired. 

Satin’s deft fingers work fast on the clasp of Jon’s cloak. It falls heavily on the floor. Satin wants to hold Jon’s face in his hands and kiss him on the mouth—for whatever reason, the fact he just kissed Theon makes him even more eager for Jon’s mouth. But he doesn’t kiss him. Instead, he unties the cords in his leather doublet, loosening the laces enough to take them off. It’s time to remove Jon’s boots, so Satin drops to his knees. When he does that, his face is lined up with Jon’s crotch. He wants nothing more than put his mouth over Jon’s prick, over breeches, smallclothes and all, just feel its shape and its warmth, drool on it until his spit soaks all the layers of clothes. He does nothing, though. He takes Jon’s boots off like he’s supposed to, and stays there, at Jon’s knees, looking up. 

“What do you want from me now, my lord?” Satin asks. He’d do just about anything. 

Jon stares at him, and puts one hand in Satin’s hair. His hand feels big, and powerful, and Satin can already imagine how his scalp would hurt and burn so deliciously if Jon pulled his hair while Satin teased with his tongue. For a moment, it looks like that’s what is going to happen. But Jon’s hand slides down to his shoulder, beckoning him to rise. 

“I just need you to fetch me dinner,” he says, looking away. 

Resignedly, Satin walks to the kitchens as fast as he can, heating up a roasted quail, with a portion of spice bread and onion cheese. Jon is waiting by his desk when Satin returns. He places the tray in front of his lord, and pours wine into his cup. 

“Do you still need me, my lord?” 

 _Tell me you do. Tell me to do all the things I should have done yesterday._

“No. It’s fine. I know you want to go back to Theon. You’re dismissed,” Jon says, his tone final, lowering his eyes to his plate. 

When Satin goes back to their room, Theon is already asleep.


	19. Theon XI/Jon XII

In the morning, Jon’s hands shake almost imperceptibly when he’s talking to Theon. He closes his fists and takes a deep breath before resuming his speech, but Theon has already noticed it. 

“—what you did with the kitchen reports was impressive,” Jon goes on, “so I’d like you to do the same with the armory. I’d like you to write new reports, and review old ones if there’s any, on all the armor and weapons the Wall has available. We’ve already lost Eastwatch to wights. I want our brothers to have a fighting chance when the Others rain their power on us.” 

Theon nods silently. He’s still having trouble wrapping his mind around this new world—a freezing world where giants, wights, white walkers and all sorts of creatures he only imagined as part of Old Nan’s stories are a real menace, one that by all measures should make him recoil with fear, but doesn’t. As Jon gives him his task, Theon feels like he belongs at the Wall. Jon leaves, and Satin follows him shortly after, kissing Theon before he goes. That’s another place where Theon feels like he belongs—with Satin and Jon and whatever it is they have. 

He begins his first report by writing down Jon’s and Satin’s possessions. He knows Satin has a longbow and a hunting knife—he’s had plenty of chances to see Satin use those weapons—and that Jon has that beautiful, Valyrian steel sword, the one he heard being called Longclaw. Jon has his everyday clothes, made mostly of leather, wool and furs, but he also has armor sets of mail and plate. He has never inspected Jon’s boot, but by looking at them, he could swear they have steel tips. He doesn’t know if Satin has any other garments made of leather at least—therefore worthy of being considered armor—or if all his personal clothes are made of wool, fur and linen. Would going through Satin’s bags be an offense, if they shared the same room, the same bed, and sometimes their bodies? 

Theon takes a while to make up his mind, but, in the end, he rises from his chair, walking to their tiny room. Satin’s chest is filled with clothes—linen breeches, hoses, socks, scarfs, one pair of leather gloves, coarse shirts, all of them black. None of which can be considered armor, not even the gloves—they’re just too battered. He’s about to go back to his desk when something under the bed catches his attention. At first, Theon doesn’t realize what it is, but upon close examination, he sees it’s the strap of a bag. He pulls the satchel from under the bed, placing it over the mattress. 

He hesitates in opening it. If it was hidden, it probably means Satin wants to keep its contents a secret. Theon almost puts the bag where he found it, but curiosity takes the best of him. Once he opens it, what he finds doesn’t give him a clue as to why Satin would keep these hidden. A sharp blade for shaving, a wide leather belt, a long piece of rope, a large vial filled with some crystal clear fluid, and a large, square piece of blue silk. He tries the vial, unclasping the lid. There’s no smell. He tries to pour some of the fluid on his fingertips. Touching it, he realizes it’s a lot oilier than he had imagined. He touches his oiled finger with his tongue. It doesn’t taste bad, but it definitely isn’t meant for eating. 

Theon is still frowning at the vial when realization dawns on him; he knows what the purpose of this fluid is. He feels his cheeks growing hot. He’s never been one to go red or stammer about what happens in a bedroom, but this is a line he hasn’t crossed, not even with Robb. They kissed, got playful with their hands and mouths, but they never did this, this thing Satin seems to think so natural. 

Satin had said—no, he had _promised—_ Theon could come from this. 

Theon looks at the vial in his hand suspiciously, like it’s a spider about to attack him. He's tense, afraid of making himself vulnerable just to end up disappointed, but so anxious at the same time. Finally, he puts the vial back where he found it and pushes the satchel back under the bed. He walks back to his desk, but when he’s halfway there, a thought strikes him. 

 _No one needs to know._  

 _If I do this, no one needs to know. Should I love it, should I hate it, it’s nobody’s business but mine._  

He stands there, in the middle of Jon’s chambers, and the only sound is the wood cracking in the fireplace. It’s easier to make the decision this time. Instead of heading to the desk, he goes to the door, barring it closed. He walks back to the room he shares with Satin, trying not to feel giddy and nervous about it, and failing. 

Sitting on the mattress, he pulls the bag from under the bed and reaches for the vial, placing it next to him. His hands rest doubtfully on the waist of his breeches. He’s still wearing the one with hooks on the crotch. There’s a chance he won’t be able to close them quickly enough if someone knocks on the door, of if Jon comes back only to find the door to his own chambers closed, but Theon knows he can’t stop now, or else he might never have the courage to try it again. Besides, Satin has other breeches in his trunk, with buttons instead of hooks, if he has too much trouble over the one he’s still wearing. 

Unfastening the hooks is always easier than closing them, so he has no trouble there, sliding his breeches past his hips, smallclothes along with them. The sight of his stump doesn’t repulse him this time. He almost isn’t bothered to look at it. 

He wishes he had the patience to stroke himself like he did yesterday, really exploring his own body, but his excitement over what he’s going to do is just too great. Instead, he pinches one nipple, enjoying the sensation that flutters down his body. When he pulls his breeches off his ankles, he’s surprised to notice he’s sweating, his skin a little clammy. 

He puts both hands on his knees, and tries to slide them upwards, touching his inner thighs, but his limbs feel heavy, as though they belong to someone else. He takes a deep breath and tries again, parting his legs a little. He knows he’ll never get access to that part of his body if he’s lying like this, with his thighs still somewhat chastely closed. 

Theon closes his eyes and thinks of Satin whispering mischievous promises in his ear, rubbing his hardness on Theon’s hip; he thinks of Jon, blushing, desperate, begging for more of Theon’s hands, of Theon’s mouth, so impossibly thick on his tongue. 

That does it for Theon. He can feel his insides stirring, not as much as when he’s with either of them, but enough that he knows he can try this. He cups his balls, massaging them, rubbing a thumb over the stump of his cock. All of this feels good, but Theon knows how limited the potential is in those caresses, so he reaches for the vial next to him on the bed. His hands are shaking so badly he has to stop for a moment. When he’s ready, he pulls the lid open. The fluid is viscous, and one drop gets his index and middle finger slick. 

Bringing his knees close to his chest, he slides one finger below his balls, right between his arse cheeks. It doesn’t feel bad having his finger there, resting against the rim. He was half expecting to feel disgusted as soon as he touched himself there, but this feels normal—it doesn’t make his toes curl with pleasure, but it doesn’t hurt either. He rubs the pad of his finger there, tracing all the folds. Still no pain, still no disgust—just that underlying sense of shame. He tries pushing in a little. 

To his surprise, his own flesh offers little resistance, and half of his finger goes in at once. It feels tight, so tight Theon can’t even imagine how it is possible for anyone to fit anything larger in there. It’s a foreign sensation, like an intrusion, unlike anything Theon has ever felt. But still no pain. He pushes in deeper, getting all the way inside. He can feel his own muscles twitching around his finger, and it brings him an odd surge of pleasure. He isn’t doing much—his finger unmoving inside him—but just touching his body in this new, mysterious way gets his blood racing. 

He tries pushing his finger in and out a few times. He’s so slick he can feel his hole relaxing around his finger and it no longer feels like an intrusion. He’s even starting to see something good about this—it feels sensual like a massage—but still not good enough to make him come. Mayhaps one finger just isn’t enough, so he adds another, and that tight feeling engulfs him again as he stretches himself further. It feels better now; tighter, but better, like his whole body is coming alive. He still doesn’t feel the buildup that precedes release, but all the pleasurable sensations are now stronger, almost tangible. 

He gets used to two fingers surprisingly fast, and his face is burning when he pushes three fingers inside himself, feeling stretched to his limit. But, then again, a few moments ago, even one finger felt too much. _I could take Satin inside right now if I wanted to,_ he thinks with a shudder. _I’m loose enough. But Jon would be a tighter fit. He’s thick enough to make my jaw sore._

Theon is panting now as three of his own fingers drill into his arse, his knees so high they’re almost touching his shoulders. He spits on his other palm and rubs it on the ruin of his cock. _At least Lord Ramsay left me enough fingers for this_ , he thinks grimly. 

It all feels good, better than his feeble attempts at touching himself yesterday, but it just isn’t _enough._ The feeling doesn’t grow, doesn’t build up. He can’t get off. He keeps trying, shoving his fingers up his arse until his arm is so tired it hurts, but it just never gets past that pleasant feeling burning low in his gut. 

When he stops, pulling his fingers out, his hole is fucked open; he can feel how loose he is as he tries to clench down. He pulls his smallclothes and breeches back on, refusing to believe this is it. Satin promised he could come from this. They’ve only known each other for a fortnight, but Satin wouldn’t lie to him.

 At least he’s able to close the hooks without much trouble. Thank gods for small favors. 

He unbars the door to the chambers before going back to his desk. It feels weird sitting down on the chair; it isn’t pain, isn’t discomfort either. It’s just a feeling that takes a while to go away, like a physical sensation only there to remind him how desperate he is, how far he’s willing to go to find release. 

 _Mayhaps I just didn’t go far enough,_ he thinks before he goes back to his report. Mayhaps he needs more than his fingers, despite what Satin told him. Mayhaps he could come if he had an actual cock to stuff himself with. Isn’t that how fucking is supposed to happen?

* * *

In the afternoon, Jon goes back to his chambers at King’s Tower. He tries to convince himself he’s just checking up on Theon, making sure he’s safe and that he’s adapting to life at the Wall, but as he climbs the stairwells, all he thinks of is that the day before, at this hour, he had his cock inside Theon’s mouth. He gets half hard in his breeches. Part of him hopes Theon will notice it. He had wanted Jon yesterday; perhaps he’ll want Jon this afternoon as well. Then again, yesterday morning _,_ Theon was pushing Jon against a wall and forcing him to admit all sorts of embarrassing things, just for the pleasure of denying him. Theon made things so confusing. With Ygritte, Jon knew what to expect. She wanted him all the time; aye, she tried to kill him on a few occasions, but she was always trying to get into his bed as well. Now everything is different. He never knows what Theon wants. 

His chambers are almost dark and a bit chilly when he walks in. The fire in the hearth has nearly died out. He can see Theon sitting in front of the desk, looking pensive, chin resting on one hand. 

“Theon?” he calls, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

Theon takes a moment to look up at him. Jon is about to ask if he’s all right, and why didn’t he add more wood to the fire, when Theon gets up, walking towards him. Theon’s mouth is suddenly on his. This is the second time Theon assaults his mouth without permission, and Jon loves it when he does that. His tongue is playful against Jon’s, their bodies fitting closely together. Theon’s bony hip is digging on Jon’s cock and it’s slightly painful, but too good at the same time for Jon to ease the pressure. He lowers his hand from the back of Theon’s neck, reaching for his crotch, but he doesn’t get far. Theon hold his wrist firmly midway. 

“I told you,” Theon says, his voice a whisper in the dark. “Not this.” 

Jon squints at Theon in the shadows. He had been wrong all the time. What he sees in Theon’s face isn’t rejection; it’s something else entirely, something Jon can’t precisely name. Defeat? Resentment? 

“Why?” Jon asks. Their faces are still only inches apart, and he still has one leg between Theon’s thighs, and for once, Theon isn’t fleeing, but his body has grown rigid in Jon’s embrace. 

Theon sighs before he begins. “Lord Ramsay, he—he did things to me. He took pieces of me.” 

Jon frowns for a moment. Then, he takes one of Theon’s hands. There are three fingers missing. Jon touches the stumps softly. “This? I don’t care about this.” 

“Not just this,” Theon admits. “He took more.” 

“Did he leave enough for you to want me?” 

“Yes,” Theon answers in a hoarse voice. 

Jon kisses him, sucking on his lips, trying to make him understand. Theon has his arms around Jon, fingers lost in his hair, gasping in their kiss. Jon touches a thin scar on Theon’s neck, and he suddenly wants to touch all of his scars, wants to kiss them, lick them, wants to show Theon that they’re not a reason for fear. 

It’s Theon who drags him to bed, pushing him over the mattress and straddling him. He leans over Jon, claiming his mouth again, light as a feather on Jon’s lap. Jon tentatively touches the laces of his doublet, but Theon doesn’t protest, so he unlaces it slowly, pacing himself. Once the doublet is off, Jon retreats, parting their kiss, and Theon sits back, still straddling him, and pulls his shirt over his head. Jon observes him for a moment. He’s grateful for the partial darkness—he isn’t sure Theon would have allowed this if the room was bright. Even in this darkness, he can see how Theon’s ribs stand out against the skin of his torso. If anything, it makes Jon want to slide his tongue over their shape. There are scars everywhere. Some are thin and long in perfect sinuous lines, suggesting a whip. Some are thick and straight, and could be anything from a knife to a blazing rod. Others are such a confusing tangle that Jon can’t even begin to guess what caused them. Lost in that marred flesh are Theon’s nipples, and Jon reaches up, rubbing the flat of his tongue on them. They harden fast from cold, pleasure, or both. 

Theon moans, throwing his head back, his hips undulating over Jon’s lap in a way that makes his cock twitch. Jon could mouth his nipples forever if only it meant having Theon on top of him like this, but that doesn’t seem to be enough for Theon. He’s between Jon’s legs a heartbeat later, pulling his breeches down without unbuttoning them. Jon can hear their seams bursting at some point, but he doesn’t care, letting himself be manhandled, stripped bare. Theon swallows him whole at once, so fast Jon can barely register the moment his cock pushes down Theon's throat.

Jon moans and Theon coughs, choking a little, but he goes on, sucking relentlessly, drooling on Jon. Then he pulls back, turns around, standing near the bed with his back towards Jon.

Jon blinks at him, confused. Is this how it happens? Is this how Theon walks out on him again? But Theon is stripping, taking off his boots and his breeches slowly. Jon doesn’t dare move a muscle when Theon straddles him again, still showing Jon his back instead of his face. In the partial shadow, all Jon can see is his light hair, the curve of his spine, his perfect, small buttocks, his slim hips, his balls hanging between his legs. 

It’s like the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. He’s wanted this ever since he was three-and-ten and thought of Theon’s voice saying indecencies as he touched himself at night. Now, Jon keeps expecting to wake up at any time, but never does. Theon takes Jon’s cock and guides it to his opening. Jon moans in unison with Theon when the head of his prick breaches into Theon’s hole. The first couple inches slide in easily, but Theon has trouble sliding down the rest, so he fucks himself on those couple inches at first, taking a bit more of Jon’s cock every time he slides down. 

Jon has never felt anything like this, it was never like this, not with Ygritte, not alone, not ever. He tries holding back, but his hips start moving along with Theon, so it’s not only Theon who is impaling himself on Jon anymore. Jon follows the movement, raising his hips and smacking his cock inside Theon repeatedly, until he finally takes over the motions, fucking him so fast and deep Theon doesn’t have a choice but bracing himself, his palms on Jon’s knees, holding his arse up for Jon to fuck into him. 

Theon moans, a long torturous sound, and Jon doesn’t know if Theon is enjoying himself or if Jon is hurting him, so he asks, “Is this good?” 

“Yes, oh, gods, yes,” Theon answers and it nearly breaks Jon. 

He puts one hand over Theon’s hip, and Theon covers Jon’s hand with his own palm. It’s a caress, but it’s also a warning—this is as far as Jon gets to go. So Jon grabs one of Theon’s arse cheeks instead, pulling it apart. He barely even knows where to look. The room is shadowy, but Theon looks enticing with his long, skinny thighs, perfect sharp shoulders, hole stretched obscenely around Jon's cock. 

“Theon,” he pants, “I’m close. I’m about to—”

Theon’s reaction is instantaneous. He looks back over his shoulder, looking desperate, and he begs, “No, please, no. Don’t you dare. You can’t come now. Keep going, just keep going.” 

And seeing Theon like this, so perfect, so needy works exactly against Theon’s expectations. Jon tries to prevent it, he really does, but his release rolls over him, pleasure so great it almost suffocates him, seed spurting deep inside Theon. Jon tries to keep fucking him, refusing to acknowledge his total lack of control, but his cock is awfully sensitive, and he’s softening quickly. At last, his cock slides out despite how much he tries to keep it inside, a thick stream of seed gushing out with it. 

Theon is visibly frustrated as he gets off Jon. 

“No,” he cries out. “No, gods, no,” he says, picking up his clothes and dressing in a hurry. 

Jon tries to apologize. “I can do better next time,” he says gravely. “It’s just that it’s been so long since I’ve last done this.” 

Theon has the decency to turn around and look at him this time, breeches and smallclothes secured tightly in his hand so they won’t fall to his ankles. “It’s not your fault. I just need some time on my own,” he says, before retreating to his room. 

Jon stays there, naked, cock smeared with seed, bewildered. He tries, but he can’t hear anything from Theon’s room. Finally, he picks up his clothes, gets dressed and leaves.


	20. Theon XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In DoubleBit I find not only an incredible beta, but also a friend who is very dear to me.  
> If you like this story at all, that is in no small part DoubleBit's work.

He is sitting on the floor next to the bed when he hears the door opening and closing. Jon has left the chambers, and he’s grateful that Jon respected his space. He’s not mad at Jon, has no reason to be, really. Some things are out of a man’s control, and his bodily reactions are usually one of them. Theon just needs some time to handle the frustration.

It had felt so good. It was a little difficult at first, trying to slide down Jon’s impossible girth. But even that was good, feeling himself slowly opening up, inviting Jon in. At first, it wasn’t that different than his fingers—the same sensation, only stronger as Jon is a lot thicker than his fingers. But then Jon started moving under him, fucking him from beneath, and Theon had to hold his knees for better support—that was when everything changed. Jon hit something inside him, something that made his gut clench in desire. Whatever it was, Jon wasn’t hitting it directly, just grazing over it with every uncoordinated thrust, but Theon didn’t dare trying to adjust the angle. He just let himself drown in the feeling, repeating nonstop in his mind, _Just keep going, keep going, faster, faster, please_ , as he felt it, for the first time in gods know how long, he felt the buildup that crescendos before he can find release. It wasn’t as strong as he was used to before being cut, but it was there. He was close, so damn close. But then Jon came, hot, sticky seed flooding him, and leaking out of him once Jon pulled out. Theon felt his long waited release slip from his fingers like water, and it was too much to bear.

And now here he is, sitting in the dark, hugging his knees, wondering if he gave offense, if Jon will ever feel like trying this again.

He hears the door opening and closing again. A moment later, Satin walks into their shared room, a lantern in his hand. Theon lifts his gaze. Satin’s secret satchel is still over the bed, open, its contents scattered over the mattress. Fuck.

“Satin, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to pry, I—” His voice breaks down. He wonders if what he tried to do was too obvious.

Satin crouches next to him. “It’s all right,” he says. “I don’t mind. It’s just some things from before…before I got to the Wall. It wasn’t a secret. And even if it was, I don’t want to keep secrets from you.”

Theon’s eyes feel dry. He doesn’t want to keep secrets from Satin either. He owes it to Satin to tell him the truth.

“I tried it,” he says, before he loses his courage. “I tried that thing you told me. With my fingers.”

“And?” Satin says with a knowing, patient smile. “Was it good?”

“A little. I was expecting…more. I wanted so much more.” Everything is dry, his eyes, his mouth. “So when he came here, all I could think of was how much I wanted him, you, that I wanted more, and then—then I—we—” He looks up at Satin. Does he hate Theon now?

“He fucked you?”

Theon nods.

“Did you let him see?” Satin asks, placing one hand on Theon’s crotch. It’s the first time he does this, and Theon doesn’t try to fend him off. If anyone has the right to touch him there, it’s Satin.

“I don’t know. I think not. It was dark, and I had my back towards him.” His face and his neck are warm. “But I think he knows. Suspects, at least.”

“Did you come?” Satin asks, putting a lock of Theon’s hair behind his ear.

“No,” Theon admits, and he feels so ashamed he hides his face in his palms for a moment. “I thought I was going to, but I was taking too long, so—so Jon came. And I was unkind to him.” Did he just lose both Satin and Jon at the same time?

Satin tilts Theon’s chin up with a delicate hand. His big brown eyes are fixated on Theon, and Satin kisses him on the mouth.

“You did well in going to him,” Satin said.

“W-what?” Of all reactions, this isn’t one Theon was expecting.

Satin gives a short laugh. “How could you not want him?” He smiles with his lips closed for a moment, staring at him. “He wants you. He’s wanted you for a long time. I was wondering how long it would take for you to realize that.”

“How—how do you know that?” he asks, his brow furrowed.

“Long before you came to the Wall, Jon made me his squire, and I started sharing sleeping quarters with him, like we do now. I slept here, and he slept in his chamber. I once heard him at night.”

“Heard him?” His jaw is slack when he asks.

“Touching himself, calling your name. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know who you were, so the name didn’t ring any bell to me. But when you came here a fortnight ago, and I saw how well he took care of you, everything was clear.” Satin’s smile is easy and untroubled. “He’s always wanted you, Theon.”

“You never said anything.”

“You needed time, and I admit I was afraid I might have misheard it. It was a long time ago, and I was half-asleep.” He kisses Theon again, longer this time. “Do you still want to?” Satin asks.

“Want to what?” Theon says, but his heart is already pounding.

“Do you still want to come?”

Theon doesn’t trust his voice, so he nods.

Satin kisses him again. He’s been kissed so many times today, yet he still feels like he can’t get enough. Satin knows what Theon did this afternoon, and instead of being outraged—over he and Jon fucking, when he and Satin have been doing this dance for so long now, over him getting to Jon first—Satin sucks on Theon’s tongue, making his whole body sing.

“Do you trust me?” Satin breaks their kiss long enough to ask.

A shadowy corner of Theon’s mind insists he shouldn’t trust anyone. But he does. He would trust Satin with his life. “Aye.”

Satin gives him a quick kiss, pulling him to the bed. Theon’s breeches and smallclothes are still unlaced, hanging low enough to show his pubic hair. Satin kisses his navel and pushes him onto the mattress, making him lie on his back. Theon knows what is coming; he won’t stop it, he has stalled it for a long time now. He trusts Satin, but he can’t watch this. He turns his head to the side, staring at an undistinguished point at the wall. When Satin pulls his clothes down, his hands screw tight on the blankets underneath him as he fights the urge to cover himself. He’s exposed, his ruin is exposed; part of him wants to scream, wants to hide, but he stays still, counting the bricks in the wall.

“You’re beautiful,” he hears Satin say.

His immediate thought is that he doesn’t need to be coddled, and he’s about to tell Satin that, but when he finally looks at him, there’s no condescension in his expression. The only thing Theon sees is unadulterated desire.

Satin slides Theon’s clothes down his feet, freeing his legs, so that he’s naked from the waist down.

“Can I touch you?” Satin says, want burning so bright in his eyes that Theon is surprised he even stopped to ask.

Theon nods. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he should be saying no, he should be covering himself and hiding somewhere safe, quiet, dark, but all he can say is yes. If Satin asked Theon to carve out his own heart right now, he’d say yes.

Satin touches his knees, parting his legs slowly, softly. Theon thinks Satin will brush a finger between his ass cheeks, but Satin licks his stump instead. He gasps, and Satin looks up, sudden worry in his eyes. Theon takes a deep breath and nods again. Satin lowers his eyes, and licks across Theon’s stump once more, slower this time. He traces the scar with the tip of his tongue, licks into Theon’s piss slit, sucks on the whole stump. It’s insane, but Theon can feel himself relaxing under Satin’s mouth, even if his heart is still beating in a strange rhythm.

“I’ve wanted this for such a long time,” Satin whispers without looking up, hot breath against Theon’s moist skin.

Then Satin mouths his balls, one at a time, sucking so smoothly Theon finds himself opening his legs wider. He can feel a fingertip below his sac, and he thinks that this is it, Satin is going to finger him now, but the fingertip just stays there on the outside, light pressure on that spot between his balls and his arse, as Satin licks and sucks on his stump and his balls. Satin presses his finger with a little more insistence, and Theon can feel pleasure shooting up his groin all the way to his navel.

“O-oh, gods. How—”

“Take a deep breath. We haven’t even started yet,” Satin says.

They have barely done anything, but Theon sees Satin is hard under his breeches, aroused over nothing more than putting his mouth on Theon.

“Roll over,” Satin guides him.

Theon obeys with no reluctance, lying on his stomach. Satin pulls him to the edge of the bed, so his knees are on the ground and his upper body is on the mattress. The next thing he feels is Satin’s hands on his buttocks, pulling them apart, just a moment before Satin’s warm, wet tongue finds its way between them. This time, when Theon’s hands close in fists over the blankets, it’s from pleasure rather than embarrassment.

Satin’s tongue dances over his hole, and Theon’s mind keeps going back to the fact he had Jon’s cock in there barely an hour ago, that Jon had spilled in there, that Satin knows that and probably can still taste it. The goose bumps that cover almost all his body aren’t from cold. He still feels a little loose from his own fingers and Jon’s cock, so when Satin pushes a finger inside of him, he doesn’t feel stretched at all. There is just that slippery intrusion, one he only got to know today, but has already learned to crave.

“I wish you could see how beautiful you look like this, with your body giving in to me,” Satin murmurs against his hips, “I wish you knew what you do to me.”

Theon hears this, and feels surprised to realize he actually believes Satin’s words, that no matter how broken he is, Satin wants him, lusts for him, and so does Jon.

“I’m going to use my fingers in you now, all right?”

Theon nods, bracing himself for the feeling—the in and out movements, and that slow burn in his gut. But Satin doesn’t push his finger in and out. Instead, his finger moves inside him. Theon has no idea what Satin is doing until he feels it; Satin has found it, whatever it is that he has up there, and that same wave of pleasure he felt when Satin pressed below his balls washes over him, only ten times stronger. This time, he gives such a long wail that halfway through it he realizes how much noise he’s making, and clasps both hands over his mouth to muffle the sound.

“This is how I’ll make you come, Theon,” Satin says, and Theon has no doubt. Satin will make him come.

Satin repeats the motion a few times, curling his finger and rubbing that spot inside him. Theon doesn’t even know what do with himself. He’s almost drawing blood from his lips as he bites them in attempt to hold at least _some_ control over the sounds he makes, but Satin is licking the skin around his finger, adding a second one shortly after. Theon lets out a moan at the surprise of it. He’s glad to have his torso over the bed because his knees are feeling weak. He can feel the pressure shooting up all the way inside him, making his heart feel small in his chest.

“Don’t worry, take your time. I love having my fingers inside you. I can do this all night if you want me to,” Satin tells him, but there’s no need.

The sensation is building up fast in his groin. It isn’t anywhere close to what having his cock stroked used to feel like—it’s just raw, blinding pleasure with no focal point. It’s pleasure consuming his whole body. He’s going to come, he knows it, and it already feels so intense he’s almost afraid of it. He doesn’t want to, but he clenches down, every muscle in his body tight.

When it finally happens, when he comes, a thousand thoughts go through his mind in the time of a heartbeat, some of them astonished— _how is this even possible?—_ some confused— _if it doesn’t hurt, why are my eyes so watery?_ —others just plain eager— _why didn’t I do this sooner?_ —but then all of them go quiet, silenced by the intensity of his release.

He keeps his eyes closed for a moment after it’s over and Satin’s fingers are no longer inside him. He wonders if his body is actually spasming or if it’s just an impression. At last, when he opens his eyes and rolls over, lying on his back, he sees his inner thighs covered in seed. For a moment, he thinks it’s Satin’s—was he so lost in his own pleasure he didn’t even feel Satin spilling over him? But then he looks at Satin, still completely dressed, still hard in his breeches. Then it hits him—it’s _his_ seed. The slit in his stump still has a drop hanging from it. Theon looks at the mess between in legs in complete awe.  He never thought he’d see that again.

He doesn’t want to cry, he truly doesn’t; he doesn’t have a reason, this is good, it’s no reason to cry. But tears well up in his eyes anyway and he almost hates himself for it. He should be doing something, _anything,_ to offer Satin some repayment, show him how grateful he is, instead of crying for no reason. But Satin has already taken Theon in his arms, pulling the cover on top of them as best as he can, running his fingers through Theon’s hair.

Theon buries his face in the curve of Satin’s neck, and doesn’t fight sleep when it comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, commenting, subscribing, leaving me kudos and bookmarking this story. You have no idea how happy and accomplished you make me feel. ^^


	21. Satin IX

It’s dark outside when Satin wakes up, and it strikes him as odd. Something tells him the sky should already be clearing by now, but no light seeps in through the narrow window slits. He rubs the sleep away from his eyes and gets up, pulling his boots on and covering himself with his thickest fur before crossing the Lord Commander’s quarters. Jon is still asleep in his bed, heavy blankets covering his head.

The whole tower seems dead as he climbs down the stairs. The torchlights are still burning on the walls, illuminating the way, but their fire is dying. It’s too soon for that; Satin tended to the flames in the entire tower as well as in Jon’s chambers yesterday at nightfall, and they should be burning bright at least until midday. He reaches the bottom floor without hearing a sound other than his own steps. The King’s Tower is one of the sturdiest buildings in Castle Black, but he should be hearing sounds from the outside world by now—brothers yelling at each other, the noisy wildling camp waking up, draft animals pulling carts from one building to another. Not this dead, ominous silence. The door’s handle is freezing cold when Satin touches it.

At his first pull, the door doesn’t move, stuck. He pulls a little harder. Only on his third pull, the door moves an inch, and snow gets in through the crack. There’s nothing but white beyond the door. There, where he used to see the yard and the Wall looming over Castle Black, there’s nothing but snow, compact, closing the threshold completely. It’s probably Satin’s imagination, but now he thinks he can, in fact, hear sound outside—the wind blowing violently in a hailstorm, a blizzard, a sound from nature.

Satin has never been snowed in before. He tries to remember yesterday’s sky, if there was anything in it that might have been a warning. He can’t remember. The wildlings hadn’t said anything either, which is strange. Life beyond the Wall depends on being able to predict snowstorms and seek shelter while there is time, and the wildlings lived there for countless years. It’s uncanny they wouldn’t see this one coming early enough to make preparations.

Satin closes the door again as best as he can. How long can the storm last? How long will it take for the snow to melt? They’re going to need a lot of wood to keep the fire alive. He took dozens of logs to Jon’s already well stocked chambers the previous night, but, not knowing how long they will remain isolated, there’s no way of telling how long they’ll have to make the wood last. He goes back to the chambers again, putting out the torchlights in his path and piling up their sticks on his arms. They will be better used in Jon’s hearth, instead of in an empty stairwell.

When he walks into the chambers, Jon is awake, and sitting on his bed.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, eyes still swollen with sleep.

“We’re snowed in, my lord,” Satin says. “The door was sealed shut.”

Jon blinks a couple times, seeming confused. “Snowed in? Yesterday was the warmest day since winter began.”

So Jon, too, notices the eeriness of it. It increases Satin’s apprehension.

“How much food do we have?” Jon asks, frowning.

“With the cheese and beef my lord brought from the pantry yesterday, we should have enough to last a few days, if necessary. There is still the loaf of spiced bread I usually serve with my lord’s soup. My herb pouch is nearly full, so we can have tea, too. And water won’t be a problem.” At least they won’t starve. It’s a start.

“Gods, the animals in the barns. If no one is there to feed them and to build a fire, they’ll die. By the time the snow melts, famine could strike us again,” Jon says, riled up, putting on his boots. “Are you sure there’s no way of going through?”

“It’s buried in snow, my lord. But I can take you there to see with your own eyes if need be. I took the torchlights from the walls to save wood, but I can take my lord there with a lantern.”

It takes a moment, but Jon seems to have collected himself. He sighs, slouching down on the bed again. “I’m sorry. There’s no need. I’ll go later, see if the snow has melted some. Fetch me a piece of that bread and beef you spoke of, will you?”

Satin nods, turning his back on Jon to set a small portion of food on a platter. As he’s cutting a slice of the beef, he hears a streaking sound, and looks back in reflex—Jon pissing into his chamber pot. But then Theon wakes up and joins them in Jon’s chambers, and Satin stops staring.

“What happened?” Theon asks, looking from Satin to Jon.

“We’re snowed in. But at least we have food, heat, and a privy downstairs,” Jon says, lacing himself up, and taking the chamber pot in his hands.

Satin puts the knife down on the platter and goes to Jon, reaching for the pot in his hands. “Here, let me take care of this.”

Jon shakes his head no. “Make Theon a plate instead,” he says, leaving the chambers, closing the door behind him.

“You don’t have to. I can take care of it myself,” Theon says, sitting down next to the dining table.

But Satin is already making another plate. “You heard the Lord Commander,” he says, smiling.

He fetches water from the barrel and pours it in a cauldron. The fire in the hearth isn’t the same as a stove, but it’s just tea, so it’ll do.

“Did you sleep well last night?”

Theon stares at him between small bites of bread. “How could I not?”

They eat together, chewing slowly, savoring the food. It’s not particularly tasty, but they don’t know how long they’ll have to make food last, so it’s best to be cautious. Jon takes a long time to come back. By the time he does, the tea has already cooled down. When Jon stumbles into the room, his lips are so pale they’re almost blue, and he’s shivering from head to toe.

“My lord, what have you done?” Satin says, rushing to his side.

Jon’s clothes are soaking wet and there are tiny icicles in his hair. “I-I t-tried to—to dig my way o-out,” he says, teeth clacking. “I-I thought the snow might be recent, thought it wasn’t so…” And he stops talking, closing his eyes.

Satin taps him on the cheeks. “No, no, wake up. My lord… Lord Commander.” A few more slaps on each freezing cheek, a little harder this time. “ _Jon,_ open your eyes.”

Jon’s eyes snap open, greyer than ever, and he blinks a few times.

“Come, help me,” Satin says, urging Theon next to him. “We need to take him out of these wet clothes. Help me raise his arms.”

Theon does as he’s told, holding Jon’s arms high above his head while Satin pulls the thick, wet fabric over his neck. Theon is already pulling Jon’s boots free while Satin’s fingers work on his belt and on the buttons of his breeches. Even his smallclothes are soaked. How far into the snow did he go?

Once Jon is naked on the bed, Satin wraps all the blankets around him, rubbing them vigorously on his skin.

“There’s a gallon of moonshine above the cabinet. There, on the top,” he tells Theon, as he fetches Jon’s thickest fur to wrap around him as well. “Pour him a cup,” he says, “and take the mattress from our room and place it in front of the hearth.”

Theon hands him the cup before going to their room.

Satin presses the cup against Jon’s lips, tilting it slowly so Jon won’t choke on the liquid. Satin has done it a million times before, giving him water, milk, and honey in his sickbed; taking care of Jon like this is something he’ll never unlearn.

Jon coughs a few times. “It burns,” he says, eyes already beginning to shut again.

“It’s supposed to,” Satin says. “My lord, eyes open.” Satin taps him on the cheek again. “Jon.” It works, and Jon’s eyes open once more.

Theon is back with the mattress, placing it in front of the fire.

“Not too close,” Satin instructs as he tries to lift Jon from the bed, but he’s just too heavy.

In an instant, Theon is next to him, and they take Jon by the armpits, half-dragging, half-carrying him to the mattress on the floor in front of the fireplace. Once he’s there, Satin makes Jon take another sip from the cup. He doesn’t complain this time.

Theon pulls the mattress from Jon’s bed to the floor as well. With the two mattresses together in front of the fireplace, there’s enough room for the three of them.

“My lord, try to stay awake. Look at me,” Satin says, cradling Jon’s face in his hands. “Look at me, my lord. Talk to me.”

“Jon…the name is Jon,” Jon says, his words slurring a little.

Satin wonders if that’s from the moonshine or from the cold. Either way, it makes his heart warm. He stares at Jon for a few moments longer, glad to see Jon is not closing his eyes again, his body barely shivering now. Satin fills the cup again, handing it to Theon. “Want some?” he asks.

Theon takes the cup from his hand, taking a large swig. Satin does the same, and the cup goes from his hand to Theon’s and back to his a few times. Satin looks at Jon again, glad to see his lips are already starting to pink up. He gives Jon another sip just to be sure.

Jon swallows it down, and says, “I’m sorry. For all this. I—” he stops, shuddering, “—I just didn’t want the hens to die. Because I don’t want the men of the Watch to die either.” He reaches for the cup voluntarily this time, taking another sip. “But I meant it. You should call me Jon, like Theon does.”

This time, Satin can hear the influence of moonshine in Jon’s words. He doesn’t look drunk by any account, but his tongue is definitely loosened up by the alcohol. Satin wonders how Theon is affected by the spirits.

“Theon grew up with you, my lord,” Satin says. Even if he loves Jon’s request to call him by his given name, Satin still tries to be modest. “It’s only natural he calls you by my lord’s given name.”

“You both had your hands on my cock, so I say you both get to call me by my name,” Jon says, and the soft drawl in his voice makes his words sound even more alluring in Satin’s ear. “But Theon—Theon had more than you,” Jon goes on, pointing a vague finger at them.

“Oh, he did?” Satin says to Jon, but he’s looking at Theon with a quirked eyebrow. “In what ways did he have more than me?”

“H-he assaulted me in the rookery. I tried to fight him. I didn’t want to fight him, but I tried anyway. That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“Very stupid,” Satin says, smirking.

Theon chooses that moment to take another sip from the cup, hiding his face.

“He took me in his mouth, right there, at the rookery. Swallowed my seed with all the ravens watching,” Jon says.

Satin wonders if he should feel guilty that he wishes he had gotten Jon drunk earlier. “Aye, the birds saw everything. I wager that as we speak, the Old Bear’s raven is trapped in the snow somewhere, saying ‘seed’ instead of ‘corn.’”

“Do not—do not mock me,” Jon says, stealing the cup from Theon’s hand, but he’s laughing despite himself. “You should be calling Theon stupid now, because if I’m stupid, he is too.”

Satin is about to say something, but Theon is faster.

“Why am I stupid, pray tell?”

“Because you want me,” Jon says, drunken defiance in his voice, “you _must_ want me. Yet you keep fighting me. Why do you keep—resisting me? You don’t resist Satin. You always do things that I’m not a part of.”

Satin supposes he can handle his alcohol better than the two of them, but moonshine is a strong beverage; there is already a tingling sensation in his limbs, he feels lightheaded and it’s hard to fight his impulses. He holds Theon by the back of the neck, and kisses him, tongue thick inside his mouth, muffling any protest Theon might’ve had.

He releases Theon long enough to say, “This? You meant you’re not a part of this?”

“I—” Jon’s eyes are out of focus and his mouth is agape. He licks his lips before going on. “I did that with Theon. But never with you.”

Satin realizes Jon’s lips aren’t sickly blue anymore. They’re full, red, and close. Satin kisses Jon for the first time. It’s his lord’s lips against his own mouth, it’s his Lord Commander gasping against him, sucking on his tongue—it feels like a dream, like he’s delirious. If that’s the case, he’ll make the best of it.

“Why don’t you show me how you and Theon kissed?” Satin pulls back to ask, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he’s afraid Theon might not be on board with this.

And if he isn’t, Satin will back down, no question there—but he doesn’t have more time to dwell on that, because Theon has just crawled towards them, his mouth covering Jon’s. Watching them with their lips locked together is nearly more arousing to Satin than actually kissing either of them—they kiss like they’re fighting.

Satin lies down behind Jon on the fur-covered mattress, warm in front of the hearth. His cock is swelling fast and he presses it tight against the crack of Jon’s ass. When they break their kiss, Satin says, “Jon said you took him in your mouth in the rookery. You show me exactly how.” And then he addresses Jon, speaking right against his ear. “If that is fine with my lord.”

Jon is already kicking the furs away from his body. He’s the only one naked right now, and Satin wants to drink in the sight—how dark the sparse hair covering his body is, how delectable his skin looks even with the stabbing scars marking his torso, how his thighs look strong and weak at the same time with the way their muscles quiver—but it’s hard to focus when Theon is already placing himself between Jon’s legs.

Satin is ready to see Theon look insecure, unsure of what to do, to see him choke even, but Theon swallows Jon down to the root at once, and Satin moans together with his lord. Theon’s mouth is open so wide to take Jon’s girth and length inside there’s no way his jaw won’t be sore once this is over. Satin wants to share that soreness with him.

Satin worms himself down, resting between Jon’s legs alongside with Theon. Jon lies on his back, grunting as Theon moves his head up and down, taking Jon so far down his throat his nose touches the coarse hair on Jon’s lower belly. Theon obviously has practice with this, and Satin feels a sudden urge to know how and with whom Theon learned this. But then Theon releases Jon’s cock, the head glistening with spittle and fluid, and another urge, simpler, stronger, overtakes Satin. He swallows Jon down, and the ache in his jaw is even better than he had anticipated.

Satin feels Theon’s hands wandering all over his body—briefly rubbing a nipple, squeezing his buttocks, palming his cock through his clothes—and that, combined with Jon’s heady taste on his tongue is almost overwhelming. Finally, Theon meets his mouth on Jon’s cock. They share it, licking it together, savoring whatever their mouths can reach; sometimes it’s Theon’s mouth covering the head of Jon’s prick, sometimes it’s Satin’s. Sometimes he lets Theon do the sucking while he traces Jon’s balls with his tongue. Sometime he and Theon kiss with passion, and if the tip of Jon’s prick happens to be in the middle of their kiss, so be it.

Jon lasts longer than Satin expected, but still not long enough. When he erupts, part of his seed squirts on Theon’s face and part in Theon’s mouth—none of it on Satin. So Satin kisses Theon, searching the taste in Theon’s mouth, and then licking his cheeks, tasting Jon all over him. It’s the second time he tastes Jon’s release—the first time, he drank it straight out of Theon’s body, eating his arse, making him grunt.

Jon is still naked, but growing soft, and has disentangled from them, watching the two from a distance. Satin has just pulled Theon’s boots off, and is now unbuckling Theon’s belt, and unhooking his breeches. Satin wants to ask the gods, the old and the new, for Theon to feel fine about this, for Theon to enjoy it, to feel nothing but excitement and arousal, but everything is happening too fast, and before he notices, Theon is naked from the waist down on the mattress in front of him, legs parted, stump exposed.

Theon doesn’t cover his face, cheeks glowing bright red. Satin can see him looking at Jon, and then at Satin. Jon nods at Theon, encouraging; Jon’s cock is soft, but he never looks away. Theon’s balls are tight against his body, and Satin knows they would feel so good inside his mouth, but he’s too desperate to actually do that. Instead, he mimics yesterday’s actions—he pushes Theon’s legs against his chest, knees practically touching his shoulder, only to bury his hungry tongue in Theon’s hole.

He imagines he could try to go to their shared room, run through his old satchel looking for oil, but he doesn’t trust his legs not to falter, so he uses his tongue to tease and probe, hearing Theon moan so desperately underneath him that he’s glad for the storm out there.

When he fingers Theon, he starts with two crossed fingers, instead of one, teasing that sweet spot inside him once or twice, just enough to make him want it, crave it. The third finger goes in probably a little too soon, but Theon doesn’t complain—he just moans, and his whimpers don’t sound like _stop_. They sound like _more_.

Satin spits heavily on himself before pushing into Theon. It’s been such a long time since Satin has fucked someone like this, someone who just welcomes him inside, so tight, so scarred, yet so willingly. Theon’s legs rest on his shoulders when Satin fucks into him, hips undulating, trying, shifting until he’s able to find that place good enough to make Theon come. On his fourth thrust, Theon’s moan is so loud and needy, Satin knows he’s found it. He’s determined not to come before Theon does, but he’s worried Theon’s body will just feel too perfect around him and ruin his determination, so he sucks a finger into his mouth, coating it with spit, before he slips that finger inside Theon, alongside of his cock, so he can intentionally rub the lump inside Theon’s arse rather than just graze across it with his cock. It makes his thrusts slow down somewhat, but not in a bad way—it just prolongs his and Theon’s pleasure. He wishes he could go on this way, but soon his arm is cramping, and the position is all wrong. He slips his finger out, choosing to bury it on Theon’s hair instead.

Jon is hard again. Satin sees it out the corner of his eye. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s rubbing his own cock slowly, almost absent-mindedly, watching them with so much attention he seems in a trance. As Satin’s thrusts speed up, so does Jon’s hand on his own cock. And then Jon nears them, looming over Theon, feeding him his hardness.

The position is awkward, so only the tip gets into Theon’s mouth, but he takes it inside, sucking, while Satin slams his hips on Theon’s. It goes on and on, and Jon is the first to come, once again. This time, Theon swallows everything without making a mess. Satin kisses him one more time, savoring Jon on his tongue. In the end, Satin’s determination isn’t enough. Seeing Jon spurt inside Theon’s mouth, coupled with the warm, slick pressure on his own cock proves to be too much. He comes thick inside Theon, shudders taking his whole body.

He hears Theon grunting below him, but Satin will never allow him the frustration of not being able to find release again. He lies down on his stomach and licks and sucks on everything his mouth can find—the stump of Theon’s absent prick, his swollen and seed-covered asshole, his inner thighs and ball sac. Then three fingers enter Theon at the same time. Theon grunts, muscles twitching when Satin curls his fingers, rubbing sharply inside him, only a few times before Theon throws his head back, almost crying, seed erupting from his stump.

Theon pants heavily with his eyes closed once it’s over. He’s lying next to Jon, chest going up and down in a broad movement. Satin looks at them, fascinated. He adds a few logs to the fire before lying down next to Jon and Theon on the mattress. He pulls the blankets over them, trying to even his own breath.


	22. Jon XIII

It’s the headache that awakens Jon. He sits up, the furs pooling around his hips; he’s naked underneath. He doesn’t know how long he’s slept. Taking naps during the day is unlike him, but the cold, and then the alcohol, combined with the physical exertion wore him out only a few hours after waking up in the morning. He looks over at the source of his previous tiredness, fighting the blush on his cheeks. Satin and Theon are sound asleep next to him, their chests rising and falling steadily.

Jon remembers everything that has passed between the three of them, even if the images are kind of blurry. The freezing cold that overtook him after his vain attempt at digging his way out of the snow. The way they took care of him. The strong liquor flooding his mouth, warming him up. His drunken, bawdy confessions to them—gods, the things he’d said. And their touches, their kisses, their mouths on his body, on his cock. The sight of them, the abandon in their fucking, Satin plunging into Theon with everything he could—his mouth, his fingers, his cock. How Jon took Theon at the same time as Satin, filling his mouth as Satin filled his arse with cock. Jon’s chambers are quite warm with fire, but the hair on his arms stands on end.

Theon stirs in his sleep, kicking the furs and uncovering his body somewhat. Jon stares at him with longing, counting the scars that cover his skin. What would Theon think if Jon touched and kissed them? He lowers his gaze on Theon’s body, staring now at the half exposed place where his manhood had been. Satin had sucked on the stump while fingering Theon, who trembled at that. Jon remembers how seed dribbled out of it, and his own body trembles.

He doesn’t understand how a man without a cock finds release. Tormund, known among his kind as Giantsbane and Thunderfist, also insists on going by the strangest of titles—Husband to Bears—claiming he got half his member bit off by a wild beast upon mistaking it for a fierce woman he intended to bed. Even without half his manhood, Tormund still has many sons and a daughter to account for. All the same, it’s beyond Jon’s understanding. He doesn’t dwell much on that, though. He means what he said before—if Theon has enough left to want him, to take pleasure in what they do, then Jon doesn’t care one way or another. Still, looking at the scar between Theon’s legs, Jon can’t help but think of Ramsay Snow, of what he did to Theon and to the Poole girl, and of the taunting letter he sent to the Wall. If the bastard wasn’t dead, Jon would kill him again, much slower this time.

Theon and Satin wake up a while after Jon does. He’s had time to clean himself and get dressed, and is sitting by his desk when the two of them sit up on the mattress, yawning and rubbing sleep from their eyes.

“My lord—Jon?” Satin says. “You look so somber. Is everything all right?”

Jon smiles, glad Satin hasn’t forgotten his request, or dismissed it as drunken foolery. “I’m trying to come up with a battle plan for when next we’re attacked. Eastwatch-by-the-sea is no more, but even with the free folk on our side, I’m afraid we don’t have enough men to garrison the Wall.”

“You don’t need to,” Theon says, eyelids still blinking heavily. “Garrison all the keeps at the Wall, I mean. You should seal shut all tunnels, except for the gate at Castle Black. If they have no other way to breach in, they’ll have to come this way, and we won’t have to scatter our defenses.”

It makes sense, but Jon can’t help but dread seeing Castle Black overcome by white walkers and their unnatural armies. Fighting the wildlings was bad enough and they are only human.

“And you should use arrows,” Theon goes on.

“Arrows?” Jon frowns.

“From what the wildlings told me, Eastwatch fell over a fire set in attempt to fend off wights. So far, they’ve shown to be a bigger problem than—than white walkers,” he says, as if acknowledging their existence is almost too much. “And if fire can kill them, strike them with fire.”

“But you said arrows.”

“Incendiary arrows. Light the arrows on fire before the archers loose them, and destroy most of their forces before they have a chance to get close to the Wall.”

Jon shakes his head. He doesn’t want to sound like a killjoy, but matters are more complicated than that. “It takes time to train an archer. We don’t have that many bows. And even with years of training, most archers will never hit a target at such a distance.” _They’re not you,_ Jon adds in silence.

“You have a giant,” Theon says. “Place him atop the Wall, have him hurl massive straw bales imbibed in oil, large enough targets that even the worst archer in Westeros wouldn’t miss. Turn the premises of Castle Black into a lake of fire that no wight could ever cross without going up in flames.”

”That only takes care of wights. We still have no defense against the Others. And we don’t have enough dragon glass or dragon steel to arm the Watch.”

“Aye, but it certainly helps if you don’t have to battle the Others _and_ their undead minions,” Satin chimes in.

Jon will have to muse on that. It could work, it’s an idea.

“Thank you,” Jon says, “both of you. We’re only alive now by your grace. We don’t know how long the snowstorm is going to last, it could be days. And the only reason we have anything to eat in here is because Theon warned me about the thefts. I took food from the pantry to keep it in here until I could address the brothers about Cugen’s trespasses. If it wasn’t for you, Theon, we’d starve.” He hopes his words convey just how grateful and fortunate he feels. “You too, Satin. We’d freeze if you hadn’t stocked so much wood.”

“It’s only our job,” Satin says.

Jon wants to argue, tell him no, that they do more than that—they take care of him, they watch over him. They tumbled over his defenses, infiltrating into the very core of his being, but he doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, he gets up, walking towards the window, inspecting it.

“Can’t we get this open, look at the sky, see if there’s movement or fire coming from the other buildings?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. The windows are boarded shut. If we opened them, we’d risk being unable to close them again. It could be our downfall if the storm goes on,” Satin says.

Jon already knew that, but he had to ask.

The moments pass. Jon tries to summarize on a parchment what the major weaknesses were in the Wall’s defenses during the battle of Castle Black against the free folk, and how to avoid them when battling the walkers. After getting dressed, Satin tidies up the place, storing the food and the liquor back in the cabinet. Theon pulls a pair of breeches on, but no shirt, and proceeds to rekindle the fire in the hearth.

Jon tries to focus on the task at hand but anxiety makes it impossible. He hates being powerless like this. Without the light of day, they can’t even use a sundial to know the time, and Jon doesn’t have an hourglass in his quarters either. The snow could trap them here for days as they misjudged it for hours. Finally, he lets out a sigh and reaches for the flagon of wine above the cabinet. His head still hurts a little from his previous drinking; he should know better than drinking through their entire provisions, but this is soft mulled wine, not moonshine—won’t make him nearly as intoxicated. He takes a sip from the flagon and tosses himself onto the adjoined mattresses on the floor, between Satin and Theon. He wants to say something, but even small talk is difficult. He won’t risk asking things about Satin’s past before the Wall, no matter how curious he is, and he’s too afraid of saying things that will make Theon remember his horrific time with Ramsay Snow.

“I wonder how the wildlings are dealing with the snow,” he says at last.

Theon scoffs at that. “Most likely better than us. Aren’t they supposed to know everything there is to know about surviving the cold?”

“Aye, but… They never warned us about the storm.” A grim thought takes hold of Jon’s mind. “Could it be that they foresaw its coming, but didn’t warn the Watch on purpose? That way, they could have our provisions all to themselves once the snow melts.”

“It’s unlikely,” Satin pipes in. “The snow caught us by surprise. We had no time to make preparations in the barn, or the pantry. By not warning us, they’d risk not having almost any provisions to take over.”

“Besides, we may not be wildlings, but we’re not stupid,” Theon says. “Had there been any signs of a snowstorm coming, we’d have seen them.”

They’re right. This sudden snowstorm has something unnatural about it.

“The Queen and her men are likely to suffer the most with cold. They’re southrons, know nothing about the winter,” Satin says.

Jon could point out that Satin is also a southerner, even if he’s been living at the Wall for the last years. But he reminds himself of something Ygritte once said—they’re south of the Wall, they’re all southerners. Until they lived north of the Wall, facing dangers in The Haunted Forest, walking the slippery slopes of the Frostfangs, finding shelter in hidden caves, they were all as ready for winter as naked babes in the woods.

“What about Wun Wun?” Jon says instead. “He’s stationed at Greenguard under the command of Devyn Sealskin. I can’t think of such a storm that would snow in a giant.”

“It’s a long distance between here and Greenguard. Mayhaps the storm didn’t hit them as hard as it hit us,” Satin offers, optimistic. He takes the flagon from Jon’s hand, taking a sip. “Jon… you’re a—a warg, aren’t you?”

Theon gives them a half smile, like he can’t believe Satin would say such a thing, but the smile fades from his lips when he sees Satin’s question is serious.

Jon doesn’t like to talk about that. It’s hard enough that he can’t control this thing that happens to him; the wildlings’ fear of skinchangers and his black brothers’ mistrust only make it harder. But there is neither in Satin’s eyes, only caution.

“It only happens when I’m asleep. And it hasn’t happened many times.” He readily takes the flagon from Satin’s hand, taking a draught of his own.

Theon’s mouth is agape, but he collects himself enough to say, “You enter Ghost’s mind.”

“Aye,” Jon says, nodding.

“You could get into his mind next time you fall asleep, see what’s happening out there,” Theon says.

Jon sighs. “I can’t do it on command. I never know when it’ll happen. And I only see through Ghost’s eyes, I can’t control him. For all I know, he could be hunting leagues from here, and I would see nothing that could help us.”

“I don’t understand,” Theon says, frowning, “I thought wargs could control the minds of animals they possess. It’s what the stories always said.”

All this talk of wargs is putting Jon in a bad mood. Not only is he condemned for being a warg, but also for not being _a good enough_ warg. “Well, the men from the stories must’ve been better at it than me.”

“Did you ever try to? Get better at it?” Satin asks.

“Lady Melisandre offered me help with my abilities,” he admits. “I refused her.”

And now Jon almost wishes he hadn’t. She had advised him not to send help to Hardhome; by sending Tormund Giantsbane and his men there against her counsel, Jon had been responsible for the fall of Eastwatch-by-the-sea, as the swarm of wights only got there by following Tormund’s party. She had warned him about the daggers in the dark; his failure to heed to her words nearly cost him his life. She could have left him to die, but instead she saved his life with a protective spell and all the potions she sent through Satin.

“If she goes back,” he says, “I’ll tell her I changed my mind.”

“A few nights ago, the last time Ghost was here,” Theon says, “Satin and I were in bed together. We were kissing. And suddenly Ghost was there, staring at us. Was that you?”

Jon takes another sip, hiding his face with the flagon, so they won’t see him redden. “Aye,” he says. “The other night, too. When Satin licked you clean.” He doesn’t even know why he admits this last bit. He’s already embarrassed as it is.

“Why didn’t you join us?” Theon asks.

Jon is at a loss for words for a moment. Why, indeed?

“I didn’t think you’d welcome me in,” he says at last

“I would always have welcomed you in,” Theon says.

His mind rushes to the memory of Theon and Robb together in a room, while Jon stood by the door, paying attention to the sounds, hoping he would catch a glimpse of them, but he doesn’t want to think of that, so he focuses on something else instead. He kisses Theon, sucking on his lips and on his tongue, but it’s Satin’s hair his hands go after, pulling him closer. When he lets go of Theon, Satin’s mouth is waiting for him, lips wet and ready. He could never say whose kisses he likes best, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to choose.

Jon feels Theon pulling his breeches open, the buttons going out of their cases easily. He hadn’t bothered with putting on smallclothes, so his cock springs free at once. He still has his eyes closed when a wet heat covers his prick and he moans into Satin’s mouth. Jon opens his eyes, breaking their kiss for a moment, looking down; Theon with a mouth full of cock—that’s a sight he’ll never get enough of.

Satin opens his own breeches, pulling them past his ankles and kicking them away. He stands next to the mattress and Theon lets go of Jon at once, kneeling in front of Satin to take him in his mouth this time. Jon stands next to Satin, wanting to watch Theon on his knees sucking a cock that isn’t his, but then Theon’s hand is on him, squeezing him from root to tip. Feeling bold, Jon tugs at Theon’s hair, pulling him from Satin and forcing him on Jon’s own cock—no, not forcing him. Theon comes willingly enough. It’s like he’s hungry for them.

Jon wants to kiss Satin again, but he’s incapable of summoning the courage to take his eyes off Theon—his lips are so red and swollen that Jon is spellbound. So he sucks two fingers into his own mouth instead, drooling on them as best as he can, wondering if Satin’s cock inside his mouth would feel anything like sucking on his own fingers. Pulling his fingers free, he lets them slide down the cleft of Satin’s arse, while Theon sucks him off.

Satin gasps at that, surprised, and Jon freezes for a moment. This is all so new, so unlike anything Jon has ever experienced, that he wonders if he’s just done something horribly wrong, broken some unwritten rule about men’s intimacies—mayhaps the men who do the fucking aren’t supposed to have their arses played with? He almost withdraws his hand, but Satin holds him in place.

“That’s good,” he pants. “You can finger me. I want it.”

Jon’s heart races. He can swear Theon is smiling around Satin’s cock, looking up at them.

Jon has never had his fingers inside anyone before. At least, not like this. He had fingered Ygritte, but her cunt was always drenched when he did it. Satin’s rim feels tense under his fingertips with the way he’s standing up, and Jon is afraid to cause him pain.

Satin encourages him, saying “Go on, you can do it. You won’t hurt me.”

Even Theon has stopped sucking Satin’s cock to pay attention to their interaction, and Jon feels intimidated, like he can somehow do something wrong and ruin everything.

But then Satin says, “Here, let me make this easier for you,” and he kneels on the mattress, going on all fours, his arse cheeks parted and exposing his hole.

Theon gives Satin a wet, sloppy kiss on the mouth, before he disappears into the tiny room he shares with Satin. He’s back in a heartbeat, bringing a flask with him. He shoves it in Jon’s hand, saying, “Use this.”

When Jon pours a drop on his hand, he can instantly tell the difference. It’s slick in a way that spit will never be, and when he pushes a finger into Satin, it slides in so easily it almost feels natural.

“Give me two already,” Satin asks, tilting his hips up.

Jon obeys, because all he can do now is obey. Theon and Satin could talk him into anything right now that he would comply. He pushes two fingers into Satin, but that caress doesn’t last long. Theon worms himself underneath Satin’s body, between his parted legs, and takes Satin back inside his mouth. Jon can’t hold back, needs to get in somewhere now, so he pours another drop on himself, slicking his cock this time.

He pushes into Satin with a long thrust, and he can sense Satin’s hips faltering. Jon fucks Satin, hearing him grunt and gasp, wondering how all that must feel for Theon beneath them, if Satin pushes into Theon’s mouth with every thrust Jon gives him.

This time, Jon is glad to see, he’s not the first one to spill. Satin is—Jon can feel it on his prick, with the way Satin clenches down on him. Jon pulls out, not knowing exactly what to do from here. Thankfully, despite having just come, Satin takes matters in hand. He cradles Theon in his arms, Theon’s back against his chest, and pulls Theon’s legs apart, holding them open by the ankles. Jon is at the same time aroused and shocked to see this. He searches Theon’s face for signs of embarrassment or discomfort, but the sight of Satin’s seed smeared across his lips is a little distracting.

Jon stands there for a moment, unsure of what to do.

“Fuck me, Jon,” Theon says, his tone so serious it breaks Jon far more completely than any high-pitched moan could have.

In a heartbeat, he’s on top of Theon, cock still slick from oil and Satin’s hole, pushing into Theon, claiming him.

“Thrust your cock up, fuck him towards his navel, make him feel it,” Satin guides him.

Jon tries to heed to Satin’s instructions, really wants to make Theon come. He shifts the angles of his movements, trying to find whatever it is that Theon has up there, but it’s difficult, he’s doing it blind. Theon is moaning all the same, meeting his thrusts, holding on Satin’s thighs underneath him for support. Jon is close to release when he kisses Theon’s mouth, swallowing his grunts, a few drops of seed caught between their lips. It’s already cold, and it tastes disgusting, so he can’t understand why that makes him shake with arousal.

He doesn’t want to come, he wants Theon to find release first, but Theon’s moans make his ears burn, and Jon’s body can’t take it anymore. He fills Theon’s arse for the second time that day. Once his breaths get more even, he pulls out, looking down at Theon’s disheveled hair, at his flushed face and neck.

“How do I do this?” he asks, already touching two fingers on the small gape of Theon’s ass. He wants to make Theon feel good.

But Theon touches his elbow, stopping him. “I—I already came,” he pants. “I don’t know how. I felt it, I know I felt it. Nothing came out, but I felt it.” His balls and his stump are twitching in a similar manner to Jon’s own cock.

“It’s all right,” Satin says. “Sometimes your release will be dry, but you’ll still feel it inside of you.”

Jon falls on the mattress next to them. This is crazy. It’s all crazy. He once worried about dishonoring himself in Ygritte’s arms. If that was dishonorable, wouldn’t this be even more vile? And if it is, why does he feel like it’s the only part of his life that makes sense? He gives them a tired laugh when Satin and Theon look at him with puzzled eyes.


	23. Theon XIII

It’s boredom that’s set out to kill them, not hunger, not thirst, Theon thinks. They talk often; Satin likes to tell lighthearted tales of himself and his friend Merry, a girl he knew before coming to the Wall. Theon and Jon sometimes share stories about the time they spent together in Winterfell, but Theon can tell they’re both trying their best not to talk about Robb, so that well runs dry fast. Satin sometimes sings for them, and his voice brings calm to Theon’s heart. Jon only sang once, when he was drunk, a song about giants he learned from the wildlings. They check the snow every so often. They don’t have a way to count the time save by their hunger and mayhaps their own bodily functions, but the snow seem as solid as when they first discovered it.

Most times, they fuck.

Theon takes them greedily inside, craves having their cocks filling him. If not for the oil that they now use every time, Theon thinks he would be sore by now. And as much as he loves kissing them, taking them in his mouth, having their fingers inside him, or just lying together in front of the fire while the world stands still, sometimes he finds himself in a contemplative mood.

A lifetime ago, Theon thought he was an ironborn, heir to the Iron Islands, a natural-born conqueror, who would one day spread fear and awe as a ruler. And now…now what he craves is this. The two men half-asleep next to him are the reason he draws breath. They occupy his every waking thought. And since now he’s got plenty of time to think, he thinks a lot.

He thinks of them and the war. At first, he imagined them fighting together, Satin and Theon with bows of flaming arrows in their hands covering for Jon while he expertly annihilated every wight that crossed his path. Theon can’t fight at all, but it doesn’t matter—he’s allowed some freedom in his fantasies. But then his daydreams get a tad more realistic, and now, in his musings, he still sees Jon winning over the Others and their gruesome armies, but this time he thinks of Jon doing it atop the Wall, through his own wits and with battle plans Theon gives him.

He thinks of them in simpler ways, too. If he makes tea or heats some beef and cheese on the fireplace to make it more palatable, he always makes enough for the three of them. When he boils water so he can rub a wet cloth on his skin, Theon wonders if they like him clean, of if they’d rather smell their own spit, sweat and seed on his body.

He wonders what they will look like wrinkled and old if the gods allow them to live that long.

When he’s not in bed with them, he wishes he were.

Theon has fucked many women in his life, and he seldom spared them a thought after he was done bedding them. Robb had been more important than any wench before him, but soon their time together was engulfed by the war, by the death of his father, by Lady Stark’s mistrust, by the weight of Robb’s crown.

Things are different now. Theon knows he’s an asset to Night’s Watch—he’s realized how the Wall needs clever minds, and not just able-bodied soldiers. He’s grateful to have found a place where he can prove his worth, where he’s welcome despite everything he’s done. Yet all that is minor in comparison to Jon and Satin. Without them, this life would taste of isolation, exile.

In another time, he’d have worried about wanting two men so desperately, about that made of him. He doesn’t worry now, because he already knows: it makes him complete.

Satin stirs on the mattress next to him, smiling a lazy half-smile. Theon captures Satin’s mouth at once, sucking on his lips.

“Why do I never get kissed like that?” Jon says, sitting up.

Theon and Satin part their mouths to look at him.

“We always kiss you,” Theon says.

“You don’t,” Jon argues. “It’s been a week since you last kissed me.”

“A week? I don’t think we’ve been trapped here a week,” Satin says.

“It sure feels like it,” Jon scoffs.

Theon bends down to kiss him, shut his complaining mouth. Satin steals Jon’s lips from him a moment later. Theon pulls on Satin’s hair to reclaim his mouth and kiss him as eagerly as he was doing before Jon woke up. They take turns in each other’s mouths, switching so often Theon doesn’t know for sure whose lips are on his.

He slides one hand down Jon’s stomach, feeling the hair there. It’s soft and sparse, but dark. Satin is naturally very smooth, and even his attempts at growing a beard ended up in vain. Theon loves the contrast between them, loves that they’re both his, that they’re both with him. He touches Jon’s cock while kissing Satin until Jon is hard in Theon’s palm. He lets go of Satin and scoots down, positioning himself between Jon’s legs, the tip of his tongue darting out for a quick lick on the head of Jon’s cock, but Jon doesn’t melt under his caresses like he usually does. He looks a little unsure.

Theon raises his head and looks at him, inquisitive. He waits, but Jon doesn’t say whatever is on the tip of his tongue.

Satin, who had been nibbling on Jon’s ear absentmindedly, looks up as well. “Anything wrong?” he asks.

Jon gives them a nervous smile. “I—we—we’ve been together—in bed together—so many times now, yet I’ve never—” Jon interrupts himself there, like that’s somehow enough. He blinks a few times before resuming. “I’ve never—never yielded to any of you.”

Theon doesn’t think Jon is doing it out of malice, so it’s not a poor jape, but he knows bloody well Theon can’t make him _yield_ or whatever he wants to call it. Not the way Satin can.

“You mean we haven’t fucked you,” Satin says, with a smile that is all teeth.

Theon won’t be envious, though. He’s already got more than he ever hoped he would.

After all the creative ways they’ve debased themselves trapped in these chambers for the past days, Theon didn’t think Jon would still be able to blush, but Jon’s face is bright red when he says, “Aye. You haven’t.”

“And you want us to, don’t you?” Satin says against his ear, nose pressed against him. “Couldn’t help yourself, got so curious watching Theon come on both our cocks.” He kisses Jon’s neck. “I bet you’re dying to know what it feels like. Aren’t you?”

Jon nods, cock twitching in Theon’s hand.

“Why don’t you tell him what it’s like, Theon?” Satin asks.

As a youth in Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy would never have dismissed an opportunity to brag about the pleasure found in bed, but this isn’t something he thinks he can readily explain in a way Jon will understand. How could he explain something that makes his eyes water, gets him confused whether he’s going to piss himself or come, that makes him feel so used, but _isn’t_ _bad?_ More than that—is the best thing, the most singular thing, he’s ever felt. He can’t explain that.

“Why don’t I just show him?” Theon says, a fingertip already finding its way between Jon’s ass cheeks.

Theon can hear the air leaving Jon’s chest when he exhales. He’s shaky with nervousness when he parts his legs wider, but he looks so pliant as well, opening himself up, exposing himself without even being told to.

Theon pushes his face between Jon’s thighs at once, his tongue touching Jon’s arsehole. Theon isn’t good at this. It’s not that he doesn’t like it, he does—he likes the taste, the intimacy. He’s simply not good at this. He’s good at sucking cock—knows how to tease the head just enough to feel good instead of annoying, knows how to stroke in time with his sucking, knows how to keep sucking to the hilt even when he can’t breathe at all, and he loves doing all that. But this—he doesn’t know how to do this. Mayhaps it’s the lack of practice, but he’s pretty sure his messy licks don’t make Jon’s toes curl like Satin’s do to him. Nevertheless, he eats Jon’s arse avidly, if not for Jon, then for himself.

“Gods. You got him leaking, and you haven’t even used your fingers yet,” Satin says.

Theon wants to think the awe in Satin’s voice is real.

Jon is pretty slick with spit, but Theon knows that won’t last, so he coats the fingers on his left hand generously with oil. Lacking an index and a ring finger in his right hand makes him lose confidence in how well he can pleasure Jon with his dominant hand.

The first finger slides in slowly, easily, but Jon feels so tight around him that Theon is apprehensive just the same. He searches for that place in Jon at once, probing, trying to get to the part where everything feels good—Jon will learn to appreciate the stretch with time, will crave it just like Theon does, but Theon fears it’s too soon for that. When he finds the spot inside Jon, he strokes it three times in a row, his movements fast.

Jon’s moan is loud, and it gets Theon unsure for a moment; he thinks of pulling his hand back, but decides against it. He knows exactly what Jon is feeling—that scary suddenness of it, a feeling unlike any he ever had, too strong, too strange. But Jon can handle it, Theon knows he can. His finger keeps moving, a little slower now, but he doesn’t stop. When he looks up, Satin is toying with Jon’s nipple, touching his own cock distractedly as he watches them. He nods at Theon, but Theon doesn’t know what that nod means. He pushes a second finger inside Jon. This time, Jon just grunts at the intrusion.

“I—I didn’t know it’d be like—like this,” Jon says, gasping.

Theon wants to say _Neither did I,_ but he’s distracted by how Jon’s rocking back against his hand, so he adds a third finger instead, at the same time as his mouth covers Jon’s cock. Jon does moan again this time, a mewling sound too docile to be of pain.

Theon pays more attention to what his fingers are doing buried in Jon than to sucking his cock, so when Jon starts mumbling _more_ , he sucks more, thinking that’s what Jon means.

“No, I mean more of _this,_ ” Jon says, trying to reach for Theon’s hand up his arse. He has three of Theon’s fingers deep inside, and it still isn’t enough.

Theon can feel his own insides twitching in want—it’s a yearning Theon knows, and he wants to make Jon come from this, just like he does. Still, he needs to ask. Jon’s cock slips out of his mouth, as he says, “You sure?”

Jon nods at him, emphatic.

Theon doesn’t need to stop to oil himself again; his whole hand is still slick. His pinky finger tries to join the other three inside Jon, who is already stretched so wide for his first time that it should be impossible. But it slides in, Theon’s hands being so thin and bony as they are now. Theon bends down to lick Jon where he is stretched so.

“Oh, gods. Ah, Theon, bloody—” The rest of Jon’s sentence turns into a whimper.

“You want me to stop?”

“No. This is good,” he pants, “Too—too big. But it’s good. Don’t stop.”

In the end, it’s only fitting. Theon’s four fingers, buried to the knuckles like they are now, are probably just a little thicker than Jon’s girth. He’s proud to see Jon take them.

Satin gets up from where he was lying on the mattress, and a moment later, Theon can feel Satin position himself behind him.

Theon tilts his hips up, resting his weight on his knees and elbows, one hand half buried in Jon. Satin fucks into Theon with one fast push, no preparation other than oil. Theon feels his whole body coming alive, the heat of Jon around him, and Satin’s prick so deep inside. It feels both crazy and perfect.

Satin fucks him like he never has before. It’s so fast and hard it’s almost brutal. Theon loves every one of his thrusts, but it makes him dizzy, soaked in his own sensations, it makes him careless. He doesn’t have a thumb on the hand he’s fucking Jon with—and he can’t stretch Jon any wider than he already is—so each time Satin fucks into him, his hand gets a little deeper into Jon. Theon wants to stop, wants to say he’s sorry, even though he doesn’t know what he’s sorry for. Jon’s cock is flushed red, leaking all over his stomach. Theon can’t resist taking him inside his mouth again.

He only has time to bob his head a few times before seed floods his mouth in gushes so violent Theon thinks he may choke. Only then he realizes that his hand was wrist-deep inside Jon. He pulls out slowly, but immediately, afraid staying inside for a moment longer after Jon came will ruin everything.

Satin screws into him a couple more times before he comes. He stays there, locked behind Theon for a few moments, catching his breath, until he grows too soft to stay inside, slipping out a moment later. Theon hasn’t come, but he feels so worn out, tired and sated, he might as well have.

Jon is lying on the mattress, chest heaving, legs parted like he’s forgotten how to close them. The muscles in his thighs are quivering. His hole is still gaping. Theon knows he should be asking Jon if he’s all right, if he’s hurting, but he’s too afraid of the answer. His gut tells him Jon is fine, even if very sore, but he doesn’t think he could handle the guilt if he’s mistaken. Instead, Theon licks Jon’s hole again, but it isn’t out of lust this time. He just wants to soothe him.

When Jon is finally able to clench down, he pulls Theon back up.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Jon whispers against his ear.

Satin lies down next to them and gives a chaste kiss to the back of Jon’s neck. “That was incredible. You were incredible,” Satin says with the same hushed tone.

Theon closes his eyes, nodding. He can’t wait for the snow to melt, but, in a way, he sort of wishes it never would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize what happened here was a tiny bit unrealistic, but I hope you could enjoy this chapter all the same. Next chapter, the story is finally moving on beyond the snow. :)


	24. Jon XIV

When Jon wakes up, even his eyes are tired. He’s just opened them, but they sting and burn. He wonders if that has anything to do with the absurd amount of wine and moonshine he’s been drinking for the past days. There is a spot on his neck that hurts when he turns his head from one side to the other, looking at the two men sleeping on each side of him. Jon doesn’t have a looking glass, but he’s sure he’s sporting a bruise right where it hurts. Two days ago—or what he assumes was two days—Theon had spent a long time with his mouth attached to Jon’s neck, sucking on the skin. It didn’t hurt at time, quite the opposite, actually. Mayhaps it was because he was fucking Satin while it happened, but it felt the closest thing to heaven. He’s pretty sure he left bruises of his own with the way he was grabbing Satin’s hips. Then again, Satin probably didn’t mind it either, considering how far inside Theon’s arse he was.

This morning, though—he’ll assume it’s morning—Jon’s neck hurts, his head pounds, his eyes sting, and his thighs are sore like he’s been riding on horseback for days. He’s almost afraid of sitting up; his backside feels fine right about now, but he’s fearful that as soon as he rests his weight on his hips again, sudden pain will shoot its way up his body. He still can’t quite believe how much of Theon he was able to fit into himself last night. And it hadn’t hurt. He felt abused, stretched to his limit, fucked open, taken, but it hadn’t hurt. The pressure where Theon’s fingers were stroking him felt so intense and delicious he just kept asking for more, not knowing what else to say.

Fighting his apprehension, Jon sits up, bracing himself for the worst—which doesn’t happen. His body is fully aware of what happened a few hours ago, a persistent pressure making itself known up Jon’s arse, but it doesn’t feel at all like what he had been dreading. When he stands up, though, making his way to the cabinet, he’s convinced he’s walking a little bow-legged. He gets dressed with an undershirt, a tunic, and breeches. He ran out of clean smallclothes a while ago.

That’s when he hears the heavy knock on the door. His heart jumps, and he freezes.

They’re supposed to be snowed in. Did the snow—

He hears the knock again, more persistent this time. Theon and Satin stir from their sleep, sitting up lazily. Jon looks at them wide-eyed. When the knock happens a third time, they’re abruptly alert as well, getting dressed as fast as they can.

Jon walks to the door, sudden anxiety making his hands shake as they reach for the wooden bar on the door. How could the snow melt so fast? They checked it yesterday, and it was as solid as ever. How could anyone have got past it? He had tried and nearly killed himself in the process.

As he pulls the door open, he half wishes Longclaw was hanging from his belt, but he isn’t wearing one.

Lady Melisandre is standing on the other side of the door.

“I see R’hllor kept you safe during the snow,” she says with no surprise in her voice. “The Lord of Light long ago put his mark on you, and he has shown time and time again you are his chosen one. If only I had been able to see it sooner.”

Jon takes a step back, too aghast to welcome her in with words. He looks briefly at Satin and Theon, and they look as astonished as he feels. In an instant of panic, Jon wonders if it’s somehow obvious to the red priestess how they spent the last days. He hopes not.

“Satin,” she greets him, and Satin seems startled that she acknowledges his presence at all. “You were once an instrument of R’hllor when you kept Jon Snow alive. The Lord of Light must not be done with you yet.”

She looks at Theon with curiosity in her eyes, but doesn’t say a word to him.

Jon wonders if Theon even knows who she is, if he heard anything about her living at the Wall, or during his time as King Stannis’ prisoner. He must have.

“How did you get here?” Jon has finally found his voice. “The snow—”

“The snow is no more, Jon Snow. This was no natural storm. But you must have known, didn’t you? Deep down in your heart, you know this winter is unlike others.”

Jon doesn’t like the somberness of her tone, but that doesn’t make her words untrue. A snow that comes without a sign, and fades away with equally little warning—a bad omen, indeed.

“Lighten up your spirit, my boy,” Lady Melisandre tells him, a soft hand resting briefly on his cheek. “R’hllor has come to your rescue. He won’t fail to protect the soldiers who will fight for all that is warm and light against this enemy of doom and ice.”

Her words shake him to the core, scaring him almost more than the snow itself had.

“Lady Melisandre, forgive me, but I must go now. I can’t stay here chatting. I have to go and see what has become of the Night’s Watch; I need to count the dead and reassemble the living.”

Before he says another word, Satin is beside him, fetching him furs, helping him put them on.

“Your Watch and your wildlings are fine. R’hllor protects Azor Ahai and his flaming sword.”

“Azor Ahai?” Jon frowns. “It brings me joy that King Stannis is well, but I’m still Lord Commander, and the Wall is mine to—”

“Yes, you are the Lord Commander,” she interrupts him, “but you are also Azor Ahai reborn, and the Night’s Watch is your flaming sword.”

Jon stops in his tracks, taken aback by her words. Unable to stay standing, he falls heavily on a nearby chair, brow furrowed and wide-eyed. If anything, his reaction seems to amuse her.

“Don’t look so shocked, Jon Snow. _I am the sword in the darkness. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn._ Does it sound familiar to you? You see, R’hllors messages aren’t always quite clear, and it falls onto his servants to interpret those messages. When I locked myself in my chambers, staring into the flames, and I asked of him, _show me Azor Ahai,_ and he only showed me snow, I thought my gifts were lost. But R’hllor sent me more and more visions. The girl on the dying horse in the greyness. Daggers in the darkness. And you commanding the Watch, Azor Ahai reborn, waving his flaming sword against all that is cold and dark. Now you see why I couldn’t send a raven with these tidings to King Stannis?”

This is madness.

“I can’t be Azor Ahai. King Stannis is Azor Ahai.”

Jon doesn’t know much of her foreign red god, other than his predilection for fire, but he knows of Stannis Baratheon and his Lightbringer. He tries to imagine how the King took this news when Lady Melisandre told him in person, if there was fury in him. No. Stannis Baratheon isn’t a man of greed. He’s a man of duty. He takes what is due to him, no more, no less.

Lady Melisandre smiles at him, looking at him from above, a smile so condescending Jon fights the urge to shake her.

“When you were stabbed, R’hllor brought me to you, and your wounds were smoking. For days, your steward gave you potions and ointments I made out of salt. It’s said that Azor Ahai will be reborn amidst smoke and salt, and what you had was a rebirth.”

Jon remembers the stabbing painfully well—he remembers his own blood coating his fingers as Wick Whittlestick slashed, the tears running down Bowen Marsh’s face as he plunged a dagger in his stomach, and the eerie smoke that came out of his wound when he wrenched the blade free. Could any of what Melisandre is saying be true?

“R’hllor is infinite is his wisdom. Over a thousand years ago, three were the times Azor Ahai had to try before he could forge and temper his flaming sword. My mistake was to think there was only one sword. This time, three flaming swords were forged for three faces of Azor Ahai. Each face had a Nissa Nissa, a sacrifice to be made, and from each sacrifice a sword was forged, and it need not be made from steel.”

Jon’s mind is swirling. Nissa Nissa, a sacrifice to be made—Jon has made many, at least that he knows.

“If I’m one face of Azor Ahai, who are the other two?”

“That will be disclosed when the time is due. The prophecy will be fulfilled, and the prince that was promised shall lead us all to the final reckoning. Until then, make preparations, strengthen and sharpen the Night’s Watch, your flaming sword. But rest assured the final battle won’t take place until all the faces of Azor Ahai are assembled.”

She makes her way to the door, like there aren’t so many questions unanswered, like all she said hasn’t raised more doubts than reassurances. “And Jon Snow?” she calls him. “R’hllor protected the Watch from this doomed storm, this cold breath of darkness, but there are bound to be losses. Mourn them if you want, but don’t let yourself be shaken. R’hllor will have saved all who are worthy.”

She leaves, red skirts undulating behind her as she climbs down the stairs. Jon remains seated for some time. He knows he should get up, get dressed as fast as he can to finally see what happened to Castle Black during the storm, but he needs a moment to steady himself. He repeats Melisandre’s words in his head again and again, yet he comes no closer to understanding them. Her riddles do nothing but scare and unnerve him.

In the end, he asks Satin to help him with his garments. He’s in desperate need of a bath, but there’s no time. Ultimately, Melisandre’s words don’t mean anything. Not now at least. There is nothing he can do about them, other than follow her own advice and fulfill his duty as Lord Commander, strengthening the Watch as best as he can.

Only then he notices Theon again, looking so puzzled Jon feels sympathetic. He walks over to him, and cradles Theon’s face in his hands, giving him a chaste kiss on the mouth.

“Don’t you worry,” Jon says. “I’m as confused as you are.”

Jon wonders if his smile looks as melancholic as he feels.

* * *

Jon goes back to his chambers at King’s Tower later than usual that night, tired from spending all day trying to account for all the damage caused by the storm. If anything, it’s significantly less than he had expected. In the end, they were snowed in for a week. Jon can’t even say if it felt like more or less than seven days—after a point, he simply lost all track of time.

Talking to Tormund Giantsbane, Jon learned that the wildlings saw no signs of an impending storm either. Old Nan used to tell stories about how the world froze when the Others were around; could they have caused the snow? Melisandre said it was an unnatural storm, but unnatural how? An omen, or a sign that the white walkers are close? Jon could seek her, ask her those things, but she has the habit of answering questions with riddles, and Jon is too tired for that. He remembers making up his mind, not long ago, to accept her help in mastering his warging skills, but upon seeing her again and getting reacquainted with her mysterious ways, he feels less inclined. Mayhaps the wildlings could help him instead. Skinchanging isn’t an ordinary skill, but Jon has seen more skinchangers among their kind than during the fourteen years he lived south of the Wall.

Despite being taken by surprise, the wildlings are far more seasoned in dealing with harsh blizzards than his black brothers, who are used to the protection of Castle Black’s walls, no matter how timbered and crumbling most of them might be. Siggy, a skinchanger wildling Jon still hadn’t met, was able to use an owl to scout the Castle’s grounds from time to time and see how deep in snow they were. There were brothers at the barn and stables when the storm hit, so they were able to keep most of the animals alive.

The Watch lost a little over a dozen men—the thief Cugen among them—but the most important casualty was Queen Selyse, who succumbed to a fever. Her daughter Shireen Baratheon survived, the gods are good. The back of Jon’s skull hurts in anticipation when he thinks of the terrible letter he’ll have to send Stannis, still garrisoned at Winterfell. _Your grace, I’m sorry to inform you that, in addition to being Azor Ahai reborn in your stead, I have also failed to protect your lady wife from our harsh weather._ It wasn’t his job to keep her safe, that much is true; she had her own men to do so. Then again, one of her knights was killed by a giant Jon Snow had living at his Wall, so perhaps he is to blame for that as well.

The weight on his shoulder as he climbs the steps at King’s Tower is so heavy that part of him wishes he was still trapped in his chambers, secluded from the world—and it makes him feel selfish and guilty.

When Jon gets to his chambers, he hears Theon and Satin talking in their room, but he can’t distinguish their exact words. The two mattresses aren’t in front of the hearth anymore. Jon’s is back on his bed, and he assumes Satin and Theon’s is with them as well. The empty space in front of the fireplace is so wrong it makes his skin prickle. He pulls his mattress from the bed to the floor with violence, freshly clean sheets, sleeping furs and all.

“Jon?”

Satin is at the threshold separating his room from Jon’s chamber, staring at him expectantly.

“I can’t go back,” Jon says. “I can’t go back to being alone, to the way things were. You and Theon together, while I’m on my own.”

_Why am I shaking?_

Satin comes to him, running a hand through his curls, pulling them away from his face.

“You’ll never be alone,” Satin tells him, and then he looks back at the doorpost. Theon is there. “Right?”

Theon nods. “We’ll be together, the three of us.” He walks over to Jon, cradling his neck just below Satin’s hand on his hair. “We were being careful, is all.”

Theon kisses him, and when he pulls back, Satin kisses him next. They help him with his clothes; Satin drops to his knees, pulling Jon’s boots off and removing his socks. Theon unbuckles his cloak, pulls the strings of his doublet open. When he comes closer to help Jon out of his shirt, Jon notices how clean he smells. He must’ve bathed during the day. Jon wonders if he and Satin did it together. Only then Jon realizes how dire his own need for a bath must be. It makes his cheeks flush. It was one thing when they all smelled the same—their sweats mixed together, their saliva dried on each other’s skin, their seed in each other’s mouths—but now Jon feels self-conscious and out of place.

“Satin,” he begins, but Satin licks into his navel and he nearly loses track of what he’s saying. “Why don’t I—” Theon sucks one of Jon’s nipples into his mouth “—gods.” Satin is already tugging his breeches down, and his cock is swelling up fast. “Why don’t I take a bath, and we continue this later?”

“Why take a bath now, if you’re going to get yourself all dirty in a moment?” Satin says, right before he swallows Jon down.

Jon wants to look down at what Satin is doing, but Theon captures his mouth, kissing him, silencing his protests.

He feels Satin’s hands on his hips move to his buttocks, and he’s forced to break Theon’s kiss long enough to say, “I’m not sure I can do it again so soon.”

Jon loves what Theon did to him, how intense it all was, but he’s still sensitive, his flesh feeling so tender. If Satin asks to fuck him despite that, Jon doesn’t think he’ll have it in him to deny, but he’s honestly hoping Satin has something else in mind.

“Don’t worry,” Theon breathes in his ear. “Just lie down and we’ll do the rest.” He looks down at Satin like the two of them are sharing a secret Jon knows nothing about. “You’ll enjoy it,” he whispers again in Jon’s ear.

Jon does as he’s told, lying on his back across the mattress he just pulled from his own bed. He likes the freedom of acting on his urges, doing what he feels like doing without having to explain his motives—he could never explain, for example, what made him want to lick their armpits on a couple occasions, or why he gets so aroused mouthing Theon’s stump if neither of them can come from that—but this role of being told what to do fits him like a glove. It’s not the same as being submissive, as he doesn’t feel like any of them are in control of anything. It’s more like he’s being guided, and he loves where the two of them have been taking him so far.

Satin takes a step back to remove his own clothes, and it’s Theon’s mouth on Jon’s cock, sucking eagerly. They seem determined not to leave him unattended because, as soon as Satin is naked, Theon’s mouth is replaced by the heat of Satin crawling on top of him, straddling his hips and sinking his body slowly on Jon’s cock.

He tries to thrust his hips up to match Satin’s rhythm, but Theon places a hand on his waist, stilling him. ”Shh,” he says, “let him do the work. He’s very good at it, you know?”

It’s true. Satin rides him perfectly, never too fast or too slow, or too rough. Just the perfect cadence of it, the slick warmth of Satin’s body.

“And he loves it, too. Can you see how happy he gets when you’re deep inside of him?”

Satin smiles that perfect grin of his, the wicked little thing.

“Can’t really blame him, though,” Theon says, shrugging, “Even I can’t get enough of your cock most times.”

Jon’s gut twists in arousal, his breathing slow, but shallow. Does he even have same effect on them as they do on him?

“But I want to do something,” Jon pleads, blood rising to his cheeks. He feels like a child asking pretty please for a little more time in the playroom before bedtime.

“Put your mouth to use, then,” Theon says, switching positions, putting one knee in each side of Jon’s neck, offering himself up.

Jon doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s seen Satin do this to Theon, and he knows how much Theon loves it.

Jon can’t see much past Theon, having his mouth and nose buried in Theon’s arse like he does now, but from the sounds and the way Theon is twitching on his face, Jon could swear Theon is sucking Satin’s cock. It makes him throb inside Satin, trying to eat Theon out with more vigor. He loves that they can pleasure each other like this, all at once, no one left behind.

Satin doesn’t last long; between the three of them, he’s the most vocal when he comes. Theon watches as Satin gets off of Jon, then immediately takes his place, taking Jon inside all the way.

Theon’s mouth on his takes Jon by surprise, and even more so when he realizes he isn’t being kissed—Theon is feeding him Satin’s seed, sharing it with him. Jon has never gotten quite used to the taste, too strong, staying on his mouth long after he’s finished swallowing it, but he enjoys it, craves it even, just the same for what it is—undeniable evidence of their pleasure.

Jon spurts inside Theon long before Theon is anywhere close to finding release, but he’s grown to feel less embarrassed about that. He can always do Theon afterwards, with his fingers and his mouth.

As he tries to catch his breath again, lying on the mattress next to Theon, he realizes he’s not melancholic or confused anymore. He still doesn’t know what to make of Melisandre’s claims of his being Azor Ahai come again, but at least he’s not alone in this. Whatever he has to face, he’ll have Satin and Theon by his side to go through with it, and it fills him with joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so many new subscribers! Thank you so much for that and for the kudos and comments, too. I'm sorry I made you wait so long.  
> As always, big thanks to my wonderful beta, DoubleBit. I could never have done any of this without my friend.


	25. Theon XIV

Theon usually has breakfast in Jon’s chambers. Satin brings the meal on a platter for the three of them to share, food over idle chatter a good way to start their days. Fucking is the best way to end them, and often times Theon finds himself eager for the day to be over just so he can be with Jon and Satin, but he also enjoys how ordinary those moments are, so simple and calm. Which is why he finds being back in the Great Hall, breaking his fast with his black brothers, so strange.

Ever since the snow melted, Jon is busy all the time; he wakes up long before dawn, and returns to his chambers later and later. Satin’s also got his hands full; he’s by no means a maester, but Castle Black is in need of proper healers, and Satin knows some things from his time helping Jon recover from his stab wounds. Even though there weren’t that many casualties, several brothers lost fingers and ears to frostbite, while others were wounded fighting over their limited food. Satin can’t deal with all of that on his own, in addition to fulfilling his duties as Jon’s personal steward, so he’s been instructing other members of the Night’s Watch how to take care of their brothers.

All of that leaves Theon with a lot of alone time on his hands, and he tries to curb that as best as he can by having his meals at the hall with Pyp, Grenn and Halder.

“He was smart enough to steal, but stupid for all the rest, is all I’m saying,” Pyp argues.

“And I’m saying is that it wasn’t nice seeing a brother’s guts all over the place,” Halder says. “Wasn’t right to gang up on him like that. If it wasn’t for all the food Cugen had stored in his cell, we’d be dead by now.”

“Aye, but think of all the times we had nothing to eat here but greasy turnip soup while that old bastard was stuffing himself full of cheese and ham and jerked beef. And still didn’t want to share, even though we were all famished. Word has it he selling portions of it to other brothers, too,” Pyp says.

“Probably spending it all at the brothel in Mole’s Town,” Grenn chimes in for the first time. “I wonder if the whores are all right. Never had any money to go see them, but I still don’t wish them dead.”

“What about you, Satin and the Lord Commander?” Halder says. “How did you all make it through? All snugged up in thick furs, I bet, with a nice fire to keep you warm and dry.”

Theon thinks of how much the three of them drank and ate, he thinks of the countless times they fucked, while people around them were dying and suffering. There is nothing Theon could have done, but he feels a little ashamed just the same.

“The Lord Commander was onto Cugen,” Theon says. “He took the fortnight’s portions of cured ham and cheese from the pantry before Cugen could steal them, intending to bring him to justice, but the storm hit us before he could do that.”

It may be his imagination, but Theon thinks he can see the disdain in their eyes. They must think Theon has it easy, living in Jon’s quarters, working behind a desk, always warm, always fed, while they are out in the cold, wallowing in melting snow, doing back-breaking labor. Theon is sure of his own worth to the Watch, and he knows Jon sees it too, but it still hurts seeing the contempt of his black brothers so blatant in their faces, even when they try to hide it.

He eats as fast as he can, and excuses himself. Prior to the storm, Jon had asked him to account for the weapons and armor the Wall had available, and it’s time to start that. At some point, they will have to make a census of the black brothers’ personal possessions, and Theon doesn’t think they’ll see that with good eyes, but that’s a problem for later. Right now, Theon heads for the armory, paying attention to his steps so as to not slip in the cold wetness that blankets Castle Black’s grounds.

The armory is empty and quite dusty when Theon walks in, closing the heavy door behind him. He can already tell the whole place is a mess, packed full of different sets of armors, and a wide range of weapons, from swords, to daggers, spears, halberds, bows, and maces, all of them in different stages of conservation. Only then it strikes him that he doesn’t have a quill or parchment to account for all of those items. He needs to go back to Jon’s chambers to fetch some before he returns to the armory.

He’s making his way to the door when he steps on something that sticks to the sole of his boot, nearly tripping him. Bracing himself on a nearby rack, he pulls his foot from the floor, trying to inspect what he’s stepped in. Whatever it is, it’s white, soft-looking, and sticky. He tries to pull himself free, but it’s too difficult, and his kicks only get his foot more entangled.

He reaches for a nearby dagger to cut himself free, already rather annoyed, but then he hears a shuffling sound somewhere in the back of the armory. Theon freezes for a moment, dagger in hand, staring.

“Who is there?”

No one answers. He waits a moment longer, half-convinced he must be hearing things. He used to hear things all the time, but that hasn’t happened in a while. Finally, he shrugs and bends down to cut whatever is trapping his foot. However, as he lowers his eyes, Theon realizes there are other white patches on the armory floor. In fact, there are so many, it’s a miracle he didn’t step on one of them sooner. He looks up, and the ceiling is decorated with them as well.

“What the—” Theon begins, but his voice dies in his throat, when he sees the spider in front of him.

It’s gray and enormous, as big as a hound, with legs long and thin, eight of them so hard in appearance Theon knows he hasn’t the strength to break one of them. Its tiny eyes are so shiny and black, he wonders if it can see anything with them. Theon is barely breathing, the spider and he frozen to the spot, unmoving. His eyes shoot towards the door – he has no hope of cutting himself loose and reaching it before the spider is upon him. Still, he must try.

The moment he tries to slash at the white patch trapping him in place—a cobweb, he knows now—the spider crosses the room with large, unnaturally fast strides. It raises itself on its rear legs and knocks him down surprisingly easily, and his head hits a sword rack. He knows by the sudden warmth spreading through his hair that his scalp is bleeding.

The spider is on top of him in a heartbeat. Theon places one hand in front of his body, trying to hold the fiend away. The moment he touches the spider’s large chest, his fingertips get so cold they almost burn, but Theon resists, putting his whole strength behind his arm, trying to push the spider away, but barely able to keep it from resting its full weight on top of him.

Theon sees the spider’s fangs moving frantically as it tries to get close enough to pierce his skin. He’s already panting, and his arm won’t hold out long against the spider’s eight legs. His other hand holds the dagger as firmly as he can, but even so, his grip is too unsure with so many fingers gone. If he misses, he won’t get another chance, but doing nothing is means death, and Theon can’t die now. He has too much to live for.

The spider moves its fangs, and Theon seizes the perfect moment and sticks the blade right between them. The spider writhes in pain, and Theon pulls the dagger out, plunging it again, but his stab goes wild this time, and hits one of the spider’s round eyes. He’s thrusting the blade blindly, hitting whatever he can reach.

Finally, the spider stops moving, retracting its legs in a spasm. Theon can barely feel his hand on the spider’s chest, but he summons all his strength one more time to push the spider’s corpse away from him. It’s very heavy, and the effort is so great he thinks he might pull something, but finally the spider tumbles to the side, pain ripping through the palm of Theon’s hand as he pulls it free. The fiend is belly up and dead.

Theon sits up, panting, exerted. The skin of his palm has been ripped raw where he touched the spider. He grimaces in pain, as tears start to well up in his eyes. He tries to stand up, but his legs are wobbly and weak, so he falls back yto the floor.

The door to the armory opens. It’s Jon, walking in with Leathers. They stop at the threshold for an instant, staring, before they rush to his side.

“You—you killed a great ice spider,” Leathers says in awe.

Awe doesn’t suit the rough wildling’s features. Theon blinks away the tears; his hand is throbbing. Jon is looming over him, worry making his grey eyes somber.

“Can you stand?” Jon asks, trying to help him up, but Theon can’t, as the pain is increasing fast.

Theon tries to hold back, but in a moment, he’s screaming, the pain rising up his arm all the way to his shoulder. He feels the ground moving from underneath him, and realizes Jon has taken him in his arms, carrying him. He passes out from pain before he knows where Jon is taking him.


	26. Jon XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great thanks to my wonderful beta and friend, DoubleBit.

Theon shakes on the bed where Jon laid him. A thin layer of sweat covers his body, and when Jon touches his forehead, Theon’s skin is burning hot. His pupils have fluttered to the back of his head, and through Theon’s half-closed eyelids, Jon can only see white. He kneels next to the bed, taking Theon’s injured hand and inspecting it. The skin on his palm has been ripped out, exposing the red flesh underneath.

“What is happening to him?” Jon shouts at Leathers, standing next to him in his chambers at King’s Tower.

“It’s the poison,” Leathers say.

“He was bitten?” Jon asks, fingers already searching for a puncture wound.

“He doesn’t need to be bitten. The great ice spider… We’ve only heard stories, but… its body is poisonous to touch. The bite is fatal, instant death, but the body… Every living creature with warm blood in its veins that touches the great ice spider is bound to suffer a slow, painful death.”

Jon looks at Leathers, with eyes dry and burning, jaw clenched tight. He wants to punch the man until he breaks every bone in his wildling face just for saying those words.

“How do we stop this?” Jon says instead.

“No living man or woman has ever seen a giant ice spider before today, Lord Crow. Not even Thenns venture into the Land of Always Winter. They smell the hot blood in you, chase you, kill you, and use your corpse to lay their eggs. They’re fiends of the Others themselves.” Leathers pulls a dirk out of his belt, taking a step closer to Theon’s shivering body. “We had best put your crow friend out of his misery, burn him before any eggs it may have put inside him hatch.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Jon roars, rising to his feet, hand on Longclaw’s hilt. His face burns with desperation and fury.

“Do not pull a blade on me unless you intend to use it, lad,” Leathers says, with a snarl.

“Sheath your weapons, men,” a soft womanly voice says behind them. Melisandre stands in the doorway. “The cold ones and their minions breed fear, mistrust, and despair. Their doomed snow had your men clawing at each other in less than a fortnight. Sheath your weapons or all of you will perish before the Others even arrive at your doors.”

Jon doesn’t care about any of that now. “Can you cure him?” he asks. “Your magic is strong. You healed me.”

“R’hllor healed you. I was just an instrument the Lord of Light used to protect his chosen one.”

Jon can’t bear to hear a word of this Azor Ahai foolishness, but he knows better than to cross her. Especially if he needs her help. “Lady Melisandre, Theon just singlehandedly killed one of the Others’ most powerful creatures. Don’t you think that’s a sign your god wants him to live?”

The smirk she gives him makes him want to shake her. Theon is on the brink of death and she’s playing games with him.

“Save your words, Jon Snow. I will treat your black brother with the best of my abilities.” To Leathers, she says, “Go back to the beast’s corpse. Carve out its fangs, and bring them to me. Wear your thickest gloves and be careful not to touch any part of its body.”

Jon is ready to see Leathers argue about being ordered around by a foreign woman, but the master-at-arms surprises him by turning on his heels and leaving the room at once.

“I’ll have your steward help me with the concoction of the antidote. Find him, and send him to me.”

Jon looks at Theon and then at Melisandre, hesitant to leave him alone.

“Come,” she says. “There is nothing you can do for him now, and every moment you wait is a moment you waste.”

Jon takes a painful breath, and leaves the tower with her.

* * *

Jon postpones his return to King’s Tower as long as he can. He knows Melisandre and Satin spent most of the day brewing a complicated potion—the men of the Watch have no subject to discuss other than the slaying of a mighty great ice spider, and the mysterious fumes leaving the red woman’s chambers. Jon could hear their alarmed voices all around him the entire day as he lead one of the parties that inspected all corners of the castle, looking for more spiders. The snow had blanketed Castle Black for days; if the storm did draw in the spider that attacked Theon, there might be others around. That day, though, they don’t find any. Still, Jon personally busies himself with commanding the cleaning of the armory, and the removal of the spider’s corpse. Most brothers want to burn its carcass, but Jon follows Melisandre’s guidance and harvests many of its body parts. She says there is abundant magic in them that could come in handy in the future. Jon believes her, and does as she bids him.

He could have asked any of his brothers of the Night’s Watch to do it for him, instead of being up late at night, tired and dripping as he saws through the spider’s legs. His hands are cramping, and the hack-saw has made blisters on his fingers, despite the thick gloves he wears. Jon tries to focus on the task at hand—he has already removed the intact eyes, the bowels, the silk within its body, and is now sawing through the legs to collect the white meat within—but his thoughts keep coming back to Theon. He wants nothing more than to stay by his side, day and night, hoping that the gods—hoping that Melisandre’s red god is good enough to save Theon. But Jon stays, working the saw like it’s an extension of his arm, delaying the time he’ll go back to his chambers at King’s Tower. If only he takes long enough to go back, mayhaps Melisandre’s antidote will have had time to work, and Theon will be healed and awake.

By the time he’s finished with the harvesting of the spider, and its body is finally burned, there are only a few hours before dawn. When he finally opens the door to his chambers, Theon is no longer lying on his bed.

“In here,” Satin calls from the little room.

Jon almost runs there, nearly mad with hope, but all he sees when he gets there is Theon lying on the small bed as Satin kneels by his side. Theon is so pale he’d look dead if not for the weak rise and fall of his chest.

“I had to move him here,” Satin explains, “as it would look odd for him to be in your bed.”

“How—how is he?” Jon asks, surprised at how broken his voice sounds. He doesn’t remember sounding or feeling like this ever since Robb died. Yet somehow this is worse.

“I’ve given him all the tonics he had to drink. I helped Lady Melisandre brew something for his hand,” Satin says, pointing at a heavy bandage, “but other than applying the ointment daily, all we can do is wait.”

Jon looks down at Satin, at his soft brown eyes, and wonders how he can be so collected right now.

“Wait? All we can do is wait? Wait while he—while he slips away from—” Jon begins, but his voice breaks, and tears well up in his eyes. He fights them, he hates them, but they run down his cheeks, as despair floods his breath.

Satin stands up, throwing his arms around Jon’s neck, embracing him. Jon hates feeling like such a child. He’s the Lord Commander. His job is to guide the Watch, lead them with decisions that will save their lives.

“It’s my fault,” he manages to say among his sobs. “I didn’t have to send him there. He didn’t need to be in the armory. Had he been here, where he should be, he’d be alive.”

“He is alive,” Satin whispers in his ear.

“I shouldn’t have—” Jon’s voice breaks again. He hates that once the tears started falling down, he can’t stop them from flowing.

“Did you eat?” Satin asks.

Jon pulls back from his embrace and looks at him with wide eyes. How can Jon eat with all that has happened?

But Satin puts a lock of Jon’s hair behind his ear, and says, “I am taking care of Theon, but you need to take care of yourself.”

Jon opens his mouth to argue, but Satin doesn’t let him.

“When you were stabbed, you lay in bed just like Theon is now,” he says, running his fingers through Jon’s hair. “All I could do was watch over you, and the wait was horrible.”

Jon feels a little ashamed that, until this moment, he hadn’t considered how Satin must be feeling; he went through this with Jon and is reliving it now with Theon. Jon’s heart is tight with grief, and he wonders what Satin did with that feeling when it was Jon lying half-dead.

“I can’t make this sacrifice,” Jon says, shaking his head, feeling selfish, because this is a sacrifice for Satin as well. “If… R’hllor, or whatever his name is, wants a sacrifice, I’ve already made plenty. My father, my brother, my little sister, Ygritte, they’re all lost to me. I won’t lose this.”

“You won’t,” Satin says, trying to soothe him. “Lady Melisandre’s potions came through for you, and they’ll come through for Theon as well. You’ll see.”

Part of him wants to tell Satin he can’t know that, no one can know that, but he stays silent, tightening their embrace. He needs to believe Satin’s words. Or else, he’ll lose his mind.


	27. Jon XVI

For Jon, life at the Wall is at once exactly the same and entirely different from what it was before Theon arrived. It’s the same because Jon still has the same obligations. He still hears the same complaints from the First Builder. He still intervenes in the same old quarrels between free folk and his black brothers. He still has to figure out ways to make the Night Watch’s gold stretch in a world where supplies get progressively more expensive and scarce. None of that has changed because Theon was attacked. And yet life _is_ entirely different because Theon did change too many things.

The furniture in his chambers is exactly where it’s supposed to be—the cabinet is still pushed against a corner; the opulent desk is still covered with parchments long overdue; the bathtub is still old, wet, and cold. Nothing unlike what he is used to. But everything is different. There is a Theon-shaped hole in everything. As Jon gets ready to leave his quarters in the morning, his eyes survey the empty spaces. At the desk, he should be seeing Theon hunched over books and paper, holding the quill between his fingers with a dexterity such maimed hands weren’t supposed to have. No wonder there—Theon has always been a dexterous man. First with his bow and arrow, and now with simpler things, but skilled nonetheless. The bathtub reminds him of the first time he was naked in front of both Satin and Theon, back in Winterfell. The uneasiness he had felt back then now seems like something from another life. Now, being naked around them feels more natural than being clothed. He wonders if Theon will ever lay eyes on Jon’s naked body again. He tries to remember the last time the three of them shared each other’s arms. Would either of them have done anything different had they known that would be the last?

Jon never leaves his chambers in the mornings without looking at Theon. Every day he’s desperate to see any change, to see anything different about Theon’s complexion—desperate for anything to feed his hope. He tries to convince himself Theon looks less pale, that his thin body isn’t returning to the gauntness it displayed upon Theon’s arrival at the Wall. It’s been a fortnight since the attack, and Satin still watches over Theon night and day, leaving his side only to get more ointments from Melisandre and food from the kitchens, but Theon still looks dead to the world. He doesn’t writhe anymore like he did the night of his attack and his eyes are peacefully shut, instead of half-open with white peeking through the eyelids. He doesn’t sweat anymore either. At first, Jon assumed that was improvement, but now… Now that nothing ever changes, now that the only signs Theon is still alive are the quiet rhythm of his breathing and that Satin still wipes him clean every day, Jon has to fight hard not to despair.

Against all odds, the men of the Watch seem to have found some courage since the great ice spider’s attack; Jon has a suspicion it’s partially Lady Melisandre’s influence, but most men at Castle Black appear to believe the Wall is being divinely protected. Jon has trouble seeing the reasoning behind that line of thought, but Melisandre says it’s a good thing the fiends of cold are finally making their move—it means reckoning is finally at hand and R’hllor’s victory draws near.

With Queen Selyse’s passing, Wun Wun is back at Castle Black, and in addition to helping the builders, the giant also helps with plucking crop from the frozen ground. King Stannis won an important battle against the dismantled Lannister troops down the Neck and took no prisoners; the men who got to keep their heads are currently on their way to the Watch to help garrisoning the keeps along the Wall. Jon doesn’t care if they’re brave or cowards, if they’re young or old—they’re alive and doomed to take the black, which is all that matters right now. The glassmakers promised by Lord Manderly have arrived not long ago and are already working on building the greenhouses the Watch so desperately needs.

Jon should feel hopeful, despite the winter, but he can’t.

Sometimes, he hears black brothers whispering to one another—tales of how large and frightening the ice spider was. They don’t call Theon a turncloak anymore; he’s Theon the Vanquisher on their lips now. Jon hates it that Theon isn’t awake to hear it.

At night, when Jon gets back to his chambers at King’s Tower, Satin usually undresses him, planting a kiss on each part of Jon’s body left naked, but those kisses are soothing, instead of lewd. He whispers soft words to Jon every time, telling him Theon is going to be all right, that he will wake up so they can conquer the long night together. Jon closes his eyes listening to Satin’s melodic voice, letting himself drown in it. Jon tries his best to believe in those words, wishing he and Satin found proper comfort in each other, but pain grips his chest harder with each passing day. Guilt weighs him down for nurturing such depressive thoughts—he’ll never even say the words because Satin’s spirit shouldn’t be crushed over Jon’s weak faith—but truth is Satin can’t know if things will be all right. No one can. Still, Jon lets himself be lulled to sleep every night by Satin’s soothing—albeit empty—promises. As of lately, though, the calm he finds in them does nothing but wither as Jon loses himself thinking of grim prospects.

All of this is his fault for sending Theon to the armory.

Jon maintains a cool exterior when he’s out there fulfilling his role as Lord Commander, but the moment steps into his chambers, the change in his demeanor is evident on his body: his shoulders sag and his brow creases, his hands clenching into fists.

Tonight, when Jon steps into his rooms at King’s Tower, Satin isn’t there. Their firewood stock next to the hearth is running low, so he’s probably out taking care of it. Jon doesn’t worry about Satin like he once did, right after taking him in as his steward. With just how much Satin helped tending to the weak and wounded after the snowstorm, most brothers now have him in the utmost account, words like “catamite” and “whore” banished from their lips in Satin’s presence. Jon doesn’t think they call him that even behind the man’s back, in all honesty.

Satin has become so strong and steady.

Jon reminds himself of the battle of Castle Black and the boy Satin once was—fragile, scared, wetting his own breeches in fear of the impending attack. But even then he’d shown how much bravery he’s got stored inside him, standing his ground even when he was the most afraid. Satin’s fortitude has evolved in more ways than one. For the first time, Jon realizes Satin isn’t a delicate thing he needs to protect.

Alone, Jon makes his way to tiny room where Theon rests and sits by the side of the cot, watching over Theon’s limp form until Satin gets back. Eventually, the sound of a door opening and closing announces Satin’s return. In a moment, he’s sitting by Jon’s side.

Taking Satin’s hand on his, the corners of Jon’s lips rise softly, but it feels nothing like a smile.

“The glassmaker apprentices chose a suitable site for building the second greenhouse. They said we shall be harvesting herbs grown in our own grounds no more than two months from now,” Satin says all of a sudden, as if he’s just found out about it.

“Good,” Jon replies, trying to force his lips into a grin. The attempt must make his face appear misshapen if looks as ugly as it feels.

“I wish there was something I could do or say to lift your spirit. To lift mine own spirit.”

“I wish so too,” Jon says. “But you’re welcome to try,” he adds after a moment of consideration. It will do neither of them any good if they delve further into melancholy.

“Well, I could tell you another story from the brothel. I got some good laughs out of you and Theon with my crude adventures alongside Merry back when we were snowed in.”

An actual smile finds its way to Jon’s lips and it hurts. “I’ve always enjoyed listening to exciting stories. Old Nan’s at first. In Winterfell, all the children gathered around her chair eager to hear legends of barbaric wildlings who stole smallfolk girls from their beds and drank blood from magical creatures under the moonlight. Ygritte told me a few tales about her people and their side of the Wall, too. Sometimes I dreamt about them. Her stories, I mean,” he says, thinking of Gendel’s sons lost in the cave.

“I treated a wildling today, a cave dweller from the Frostfangs, who he told me such fearsome things about his time north of the Wall. Said he even killed a unicorn once. I didn’t even know they still existed.”

Jon hesitates before saying what’s on his mind, but ultimately decides to trust Satin not to get wary of him for being a warg.

“They do exist, but I don’t suppose they live north of the Wall. Once, I had a vision through Ghost’s eyes and we could see his litter mates. Shaggydog had just hunted down a unicorn, but at the time, I didn’t know which beast it was.”

“I wish _you_ would tell me stories one day. I’d listen to anything you chose to share, but I would kill for more stories of Winterfell or warging.”

“I can’t tell stories. Not like you can, anyway. And surely not like Theon used to as a youth in Winterfell. I was nothing but a green boy with no clue what half the stuff he said meant, but I guess in the end he taught Robb and me a great deal.” _But he taught Robb a lot better than me,_ Jon added in silence. “Such bawdy stories they were. Made my ears go red, and I wouldn’t dare repeating them, but, oh, I did love hearing them. That’s what made me—made me want him at first. At four and ten, my head was filled with nothing but Theon Greyjoy, just because of filthy mouth.” Jon swallows dry, remembering.

“I used to touch myself at night and the echo of his voice in my head was what the best thing to make me spill. I’d give anything to hear that smug laugh of his as he teased me for being such child, with my face going all red like it used to every time Theon was kind enough to share yet another of how he bent some woman over a table.”

“Half of them were lies,” a hoarse voice says beside him.

Theon’s eyes are still closed, but his chapped lips are half-open. Jon’s heart soars in his chest, afraid of trusting his ears only to realize his mind was just playing tricks on him. But Theon’s eyelids flutter like he’s trying to open them and he speaks again. “W-water, please.”

Satin rushes to the pitcher, coming black with a half-filled cup. Jon holds Theon’s neck up while Satin pours the cool water on his lips slowly so he won’t suffocate.

“Easy, easy,” Satin says.

When Jon blinks, large tears roll down his cheeks; for a moment it feels like he’s going to keep crying and even start sobbing, but no. His chest feels like he’s just gotten the first lungful of air after being held underwater way too long.

“More than half, I’d wager,” Theon continues, turning his face slightly away from the cup. The water barely wetted his lips; his stomach probably couldn’t stomach drinking too much at once just now.

Jon eases his head carefully back on the cot, willing himself to just say something, _anything_ , but his voice gets trapped before leaving his throat.

“I saw you—” Theon begins, but he is forced to clear his throat before going on. “—blushing like a maiden and realized you were trying to hide the stiffness in your breeches. It was such… such a marvelous sight I had to make sure you always had something to hear—”

Jon kisses Theon before the last word is even fully out of his mouth. He only lets go because then it’s Satin’s turn to take Theon’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> If you came across any mistake, don't hesitate to tell me. Thank you all for reading. :)


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